Versus
by Threesmallcrows
Summary: AU. In a futuristic community called Versus, members of all the nations battle to the death for national honor and glory. But only those willing to break its rules can discover its darkest secrets. Has almost all APH characters.
1. Chapter 1

AN: Before we begin, this is my longest and most complicated story up to date. Because there's so many characters, plot development is necessarily slow and character relationships may be confusing at first. Please bear with me through this experiment! Hope you enjoy. Oh, also I use country and human names very deliberately in this story, so when it switches it's not just random.

(VS)

Alfred isn't listening to the teacher's voice piping away as they speed smoothly over the barren rock. After all, he's just giving the rest of the class another pep talk of the _America-is-number-one_ variety. Come to think of it, which of their lectures _don't _go this way? Can you call really call it a variety when, from infancy, it's always been one continuous message?

Alfred would like to roll his eyes, but he's gotten in enough trouble with his "disobedience," his "disgraces to the American image." Finger-shaking, punishments and all. Threatened hint of the ultimate sin: _treasonous. _

Cue yawn. What-fucking-eeever, man. Take a chill pill.

Honestly, though, he's pretty excited about today. The group of bouncy seventeen-year-olds is finally headed off to the Versus community. Every moment of backbreaking training, every word of abuse from the teachers, and every unpleasant surgery to graft more metal into mechanical muscles, has lead them to this.

Alfred plays with the videoscreen in front of him, tossing the projection of the BattleDome around, tiny against his palm.

Of course they've all been shown the Dome, the surrounding town, the layout of the streets over and over. Alfred can tell you precisely how to get from the spaceport to U.S.A. House to his allotted room (number 67, an awesome number, of course) easily, without ever having been there. After all, the teachers had always said, _half of its skill, and the other half is preparedness_.

But Alfred knows it'll be different in real life. Everything the teachers _preach_ always is.

It's a long ride over and Alfred inevitably drifts off to sleep, bumping alert occasionally when someone jostles by him in the aisle. It is late afternoon by the time he is fully awakened, as the ship slows. Around him, his fellow fighters stretch and chat in their seats as the instruments and engines hum smoothly off. Above the buzz of conversation, the cool female voice of their pilot makes announcements:

"We have now reached our final destination. It is 16:45 in the Versus community. Please remain seated. The welcoming committee will be here shortly to greet us and guide us to U.S.A. House. At this time we have received confirmation that our belongings have arrived at the House safely. Thank you."

As the intercom clicks off, their instructors lecture them calmly—_as _if_, they look more nervous than any of us—_about the rules, how they're expected to behave, what to say if barbarians insult you, etcetera etcetera.

Again, Alfred isn't listening.

But this time, it's because there's something happening outside.

Soon the other Americans are jostling for views around the ship's transparent sides as the teachers give up. Alfred, however, is sitting at an opportunely placed seat.

A fight?

(VS)

On the ground, Francis, Antonio, and Gilbert circle each other.

Yes, it's _not_ France and Spain and Germany.

Not anymore.

Truth be told, their enemy-ship has reached a point totally beyond the usual heights of hate spiraling around this Godforsaken planet. This isn't political competition. This is _personal_.

They've even gone so far as to—

"Hey, _fils de salope_," starts Gilbert in his grating French.

Even the _sound _of the enemy's language coming out of _their _pair of lips is enough to make the rest of the Germans flinch away. No, they seem to want to say, he's not connected to us. Really. We'll pretend this isn't pushing the limit of _treason, _though we feel guilty just by association.

Meanwhile, Gilbert is oblivious. Or just obstinate.

"Finally got your fucking collar off, I see. Done being Switzerland's bitch then? Or has he just changed to a different kink?"

"Running your mouth again, Gilbert, _mon cher_. Just make yourself look a fool," responds Francis in passable mixed German and French, as he has been insulting Gilbert in his native language for quite a while now. "Wait. Am I wrong… no, I'm sure of it. Weren't you collared until just the other day? That's _funny. _Switzerland's bitch, you said?"

"That's right," chips in Antonio.

"Don't agree with me," says Francis in a blade of a voice glossed with false good feeling. There are currently three long scars caressing his back, raw and fiery with pain, which Francis hates to have to give Antonio the credit for. "I'd hate for us to get along. Even the word 'us'—you understand, you _stupid_ Spaniard, that that implies you and me, in some way? Do you get it?" He spits, a gentlemanly little circle of liquid splotching the floor. "_Disgusting_, the taste of the word."

Antonio's smile is burning-bright. "Don't talk to me about disgusting tastes. Just the sound of French—"

"You have a _problem_ with it?"

"Of course! How can anyone not?" chirps Antonio. "But, obviously someone as stupid as you—"

But Gilbert has lost patience with the conversation, and terminates it by jumping towards Antonio, intent on slamming his fists in to his neck and disabling him for life.

The Spaniard's eyes instantly turn a scintillating black as the Rush capsule embedded in his neck unlocks with the adrenaline flood. He skips _over _Gilbert's fists, a clear two meters or so up, locking his feet together as he plummets towards the off-balance man's back. Unfortunately for him, Francis sees his chance and barrels in to Antonio halfway down, slamming him towards the ground. Grinning, Gilbert whirls around mid-lost-swing and uses the momentum to land a roundhouse kick firmly into the falling Francis' midsection.

Antonio reacts inhumanly fast, neatly rolling into a backflip as Francis is knocked away from him and landing crouched and catlike on tensed ankles. His bared teeth gleam a wet ivory, his lips a bitten red. The Rush is well and fully into his system now and it makes a beast of him, a dark leopard shadow hidden from the revealing beauty of the Spanish sun. All the other priorities, any emotion but rage, flee to the back alleys of his mind. Too soon the need to injure is the only one left standing, waving a bloody flag.

Buried deep in his fevered mind, Antonio smiles and kneels and kisses the corner of the red, submitting in a dark-blazing glorious defeat.

Up to that point, all three might have gotten away with the scuffle.

But—

America cocks his head to the side, squinting through the glass. The blonde man and the white-haired one are tussling on the ground now, leaving the brunette alone.

But _what _the hell is going on with his hand?

From the ground, the throng of spectators _ooohs_ and squirms back as Antonio's gloves disintegrate in black flashes, the leathery material receding into his skin as a thick wave of shiny particles dances out from his palm. In perhaps a quarter second the brilliant vapor has condensed in to a solid metal handle, growing simultaneously downwards and upwards from Spain's outstretched hand. Flowing, flowing, like liquid yet also like air, it spins solid and grows a shadow, leaving—

"_Gottverdammt_!" yells Gilbert, letting go of Francis, who'd been receiving a solid pummeling and is bleeding heavily from the nose.

Shrieks of mingled delight and fear ring through the air as the axe head bites into the floor a few centimeters from Francis' arm, sending long cracks running across the ground and pieces of rock flying. Francis narrowly escapes losing his arm entirely, emerging with a long tear through his sleeve in reward for his reaction speed.

From the safety of the ship, Alfred says softly to himself, "Jesus _fucking_ Christ."

The brunette below is easily dwarfed by the size of his weapon, especially the massive double-headed blade. But, having missed the blonde, the man simply plucks the weapon out of its deep hold in the ground like a child pulling a needle out of hay, and spins it to his side one-handed. As Alfred's vision zooms in rapidly, he sees he's grinning like a maniac.

"They're all fucking insane," declares one of his classmates.

_Definitely_, agrees America silently. His heartbeat is speeding up a little. He dismisses it as excitement.

And _then_, it gets better.

Suddenly, a blast of noise explodes down the street, loud enough to cause Alfred to jerk back from the rattling glass and headbutt the person behind him. As he apologizes, the crowd shrinks away rapidly, literally pulling into the streets leading onto the courtyard, most of it dispersing and the braver part sticking it out.

Because that idiot trio were in trouble before, but now they're _fucked _and this is waytoo good to be missed. First day back, and it's already starting again.

The students around Alfred overwhelm him. There's a lot of yelling and _ooooh-maaan-_ing and other delicious gossipy noises. Alfred yells a protest and elbows his way back in, ending up with his glasses squished into the pane. Behind the lens, his eyes whir, click and refocus automatically.

_Wait, what? _

The weapon is gone, and its owner is pale and staggering.

And that spreading red pool.

Is that?

In the courtyard, Gilbert and Francis immediately let go of each other as silence congeals around them. It's almost comical how fast they end up on opposite sides of the street and as far away from Antonio as they can get. Like little kids. Caught. Guilty.

There is a loud click as the cartridge falls to the ground and a faint thud as Antonio follows, to his knees.

"Not you fucking people again."

Alfred is puzzled. He can distinctly hear the man speaking some strange language—an outsider, clearly—but, simultaneously, he can understand perfectly well what he is saying. And no one is challenging him.

In the confusion someone yells, "That's Switzerland!"


	2. Chapter 2

(VS)

Alfred jolts.

That's right. Mister Trigger-Happy, himself. Mister shoot-first-and-ask-questions-later. Head of the Versus community, primary correspondent to Man-Home.

The rumors about this guy have reached even their isolated schools, far in the barren wildernesses of Mars. They've all heard _(been told)_: Switzerland is what stands for law in this lawless den of beasts. On this planet millions of kilometres from Earth, inhabited only by young people trained from birth to maim and destroy and kill, and those that serve them, this man is able to keep some sense of order. Out of all the Game's long existence, he is one of the perhaps three or four dozen individuals who have managed to survive the entire 10-years Circuit.

Look at him, the teachers would say, _almost _approvingly. You could be like him—but better, because you're American!—if you work hard, if you listen to us and play by the rules. And our glorious nation would be up there, running the Game, instead of that barbarian, who is slightly more civilized than most of the others, yes, but still an outsider.

But Alfred doesn't think of all of what he's been taught, then.

All he is thinking at the moment is:

Switzerland?

This is _the _Switzerland?

The next thought that comes to Alfred is, _he's shorter than I thought he'd be. _

In the meantime, Gilbert has the audacity, or the stupidity, depending on your outlook, to wave at the blonde wolf.

"Hey. How's it going?"

Francis tries not to smile. True, Antonio is fucked and probably Gilbert too since everyone knows Switzerland has a thing against Gilbert (who wouldn't, is the real question?), but he can at least try and save himself.

Though, admittedly, he's usually a part of the _you-people _trio as much as the other two.

In the pin-drop quiet, the blonde raises his voice half a tone.

"_Spain_!"

The small group of Spaniards huddled in a convenient alley flinches, collectively. Like a kicked animal.

"Some of you fucking get over here. Take him to the hospital."

Antonio takes the opportunity to pass out silently, teeth gritted.

He is bleeding buckets and has a hole torn through him, true. But just a bullet—or two, or three, usually wouldn't be enough to keep him down, not with the implants and the bioengineering and the metal nanomachines thrumming through the blood, and everything else. Not the poster child of Rush. Not Spain's star fighter.

But everyone knows Switzerland's ability is something else entirely.

It's electric, or mechanic, or a hack, or supernatural. No one can agree. But they all say that the pain is punishment in itself.

And they say it drains you, it empties you of your fragile—it _is _fragile, how have you managed to forget, convinced of your own immortality?—life force like wine draining from the shattered bottle. All you can do is fall, dizzy and nauseous, and wonder what hit you. Your heartbeat is very loud, they say, and blood burns inside your mouth.

Three minutes for the average fighter. Maybe five for a pro like Antonio. And a scraped-bare half a minute for the newbies. That's how long you have, when Switzerland's got you in his sights.

Spain moves forward in a nervous mob and swallows up Antonio and then retreats eagerly.

Francis sweats.

Damn it all, Antonio's position almost looks enviable from where he's standing.

Switzerland starts right in on them.

"Can't _you people_"—_ah, there it is again_—"keep your hands off each other for two. Fucking. Minutes? Or are you too stupid to know what the hell's going on around here?" Vash's rage is all tight control, the blonde wolf plunging forward just a foot beyond the comfort zone before yanking himself back again on the chain called self-control. "Look around, retards. I know it's _real _hard, but pull your heads out of your asses for two seconds. Just two! And look the fuck around. What is that over there?" His finger stabs the wincing air.

It's between a rock and a hard place. Answer? Don't answer? Of course, it hardly matters. There's never a right answer when dealing with a pissed-off Switzerland.

"Are you deaf, or just retarded? _What_ do you call _that_?" he snaps.

"Ah, that would be the first-year transports," offers Francis.

From the ship, Alfred shivers. Not like Switzerland is pissed at _them_, but even being mentioned in this conversation feels like bad luck.

"That's _exactly _right. Now tell me, are you _trying _to give those firsties ideas?"

"Nooo," mumbles Gilbert.

"What? _What _did you say? Can you speakthe _fuck _up?"

"No sir," he and France snap out simultaneously, even as their whole beings rebel loudly against the idea of calling a prick like Switzerland _sir, _or anyone for that matter.

Vash swallows a sigh and lets them squirm there for another few seconds. He hopes France and Germany, lurking at the sides of the courtyard, are getting the point. For that matter, it's actually a good thing the newbies—ah, yes, his overworked mind informs him, it's Germany, America, and England—are watching. That'll teach them a handy lesson about scrapping outside of the dome. The feeling of futility and some other troubles scratches at Vash's mind, but he ignores it.

Having put the two idiots through the approximate appropriate amount of public humiliation, Switzerland gets to the point.

"Did you call your weapons?"

"No," says Gilbert. Proud. Brave. A fool, but not shaking.

He is _not _thinking about what it would feel like to get shot by that rifle, or the spreading stain on the stone in front of him. No, he'll think about that idiot Antonio instead, pre-shooting. Not a pleasant alternative. God_damn_it.

"I didn't," says Francis.

He, too, curses Antonio mentally. No calling. _No calling_. So simple! He just had to go screw it up, him and his stupid drugs, though usually Antonio retains better control.

Meanwhile, Vash eyes them, eyes France's broken nose and Germany's beaten ribs, hefting the rifle in his hand. But no, they're not lying. Even _Gilbert_ isn't that stupid.

On the one hand, they're complete bastards, in that way only 20-something year old child-men can be. Vash's mouth itches to issue the order. A week or two in a collar, that'd teach them—well, not to stop, as Vash considers himself a realistic kind of guy, but at least make them a little more damn cautious about it. Brawling in the middle of the courtyard? The fuck they think they are?

On the other hand, everyone watching is very _very _aware that the season is about to start. These two may be bastards but they're also the best hopes of their respective nations in the Dome. Above any real, sensible need for punishment comes the overarching command: _do what is best for the Versus community_.

And Vash knows very well what it is like to, time and time again, put the community above the best interests of the individual. He's been through the Circuit, after all, survived all ten grueling years of it.

So all he settles on saying is, "You pair of bastards are damn lucky the season starts soon. But one God-damned _hint_, one breath of a whisperof a fucking rumor, of another incident like this and I will have you two on probation for a fucking month"—_the Dome be screwed_, he almost adds before checking himself—"and you'd better not doubt it. Do you understand?"

He doesn't bother waiting for a reply, just storms off in tight, military steps, trailing a shocked hush behind him, like always.

_Fuck it all_, Vash thinks as he storms off. _I have better things to do than deal with them. _

And, not for the first time, Vash can't help a little twinge in his heart, and the fleeting thought, _I hate this stupid system. _

(VS)

Gilbert dares to stick his tongue out, a quick flicker, at Switzerland's retreating back.

What a fucking killjoy.

In summer, the off season of the Game, the various nations had always been rapidly herded to various "retreats" spread some kilometers distance around the Versus community, close enough for access to the hospital there, but far away enough to keep the nations from excess brawling (not, of course, that the teachers wouldn't turn a blind eye to the average scrap). So it's been three fucking _months _since Gilbert had a proper fight with that idiot, Antonio, and that pervert, Francis. Of _course _the moment they get back for the start of the season, the three of them would find each other and start this old thing between them back up. Shouldn't Switzerland understand that by now?

Well, no matter. Even if Antonio's out of it for now, he'll be back soon. Gilbert stretches and grins and flips off Francis while he strolls back to his crowd of eagerly waiting Germans.

Summer has training and new weapons and all that, sure, but there's still no feeling that comes even remotely close to being back in the Versus community. All these nations crowded together, all this hostility and new blood… it's positively _delicious_, and Gilbert licks his lips in celebration.

"You guys go back to the house," he drawls to Germany, waving them off casually.

"What? Are you staying here?"

"Yeah…"

"Action's over though, isn't it? Come back with us, Gil. Come on. The newbies can handle themselves for a few minutes—they'd _better_ be able to." Everyone laughs.

"I know, right? Nah, seriously though," says Gilbert. "I'll stay for a while. Go back."

"You waiting for someone? Got yourself an outsider girlfriend, or something?"

"Sure. Yeah, I am, actually." Gilbert shoots them a deep-red look, a sharp glance with just the right amount of irritation mixed in. "Go on. Don't wait around for me. Wouldn't want you all to get in trouble while I meet my _outsider girlfriend._"

The group of Germans takes the sign and backs off with a few parting jeers.

Gilbert sighs and shades his eyes, looking for the flags painted on the sides of the enormous airships. Red, white, blue—eh, who cares about those two. It's either America or the UK, he can never be bothered to remember which is which.

But that one, bold scarlet, midnight black, and good old bright fucking annoying yellow—there's the German newbies, ready to start the Circuit. And among them…

The new fighters are coming out of the ships now, herded around by their nervous teachers, shooting jealous, guarded looks at the other nations.

Emerging from the USA ship, Alfred can't help shooting an admiring glance at the lanky albino outsider, who is shading his face and looking at the ship farthest to the right. That was some awesome fighting. With a little shiver of adrenaline, he can't help wondering what the man's weapon looks like.

Gilbert, of course, doesn't notice the American staring at him. He's focused on a blonde head of a different sort.

"Heeey," he calls out. "Hey, over here!" He waves, oblivious to the flinches of the US and UK teachers, who nudge their students hurriedly onwards. "Ludwig! LUDWIG!"

He'd shooed the rest of Germany off because he thought this would be more embarrassing. After all, Gilbert has barely talked to his little brother in the 6 years they've been separated, ever since Gilbert entered the Circuit and left Ludwig behind at the faraway German training school.

For a brief moment, Gilbert even entertained the (rather horrible) thought that he might not recognize his brother anymore. God, what was he, 11 or 12 or something when Gilbert left? Just a kid, anyway. What if the Circuit, the Game, had changed everything between them?

But nope, that too-serious expression, the still blue eyes and stiff shoulders—Ludwig's just the way Gilbert remembers him.

Ludwig reacts to him in much the same way Gilbert predicted too, first looking away as the rest of his class turns to him curiously, then reluctantly sort of half-nodding at his brother. Gilbert waits for him to catch up, letting the sea of intrigued newbie Germans flow around him.

"Gilbert," Ludwig kind of mumbles. "Hey."

"_Hey? _Fucking lame, man," accuses Gilbert. "But… yup, no, it's just like you to say something like that, so don't worry about it. But man! Ludwig! Little bro! It has been _way _too fucking long." Gilbert ignores Ludwig's awkwardness and gives him what he considers a very awesome manly bro-hug, shoulder slamming into shoulder, and it's then Gilbert notices Ludwig's somehow gotten to the same height as him, maybe taller. "What've you been up to?"

"Nothing, really. Training and classes and things like that, I guess."

Gilbert snorts. _Nothing, really_, his ass, he bets his little brother has the best weapon of all his class.

They trail after the rest of Germany towards the House, a little bubble of space around them, due to Gilbert's reputation amongst the underclassmen—amongst everyone, really.

"What about you?" asks Ludwig.

Gilbert shrugs and looks away for half a second. "Just fights and stuff. Usual thing, you know."

This time it's Ludwig's turn to snort. _Fights and stuff? _This from one of Germany's best fighters?

But Gilbert doesn't seem enthused as he'd expected. A pause closes around them.

"How're you on the board?" asks Ludwig, feeding the words carefully in to the clamping quiet. "I heard you're really high up there."

"Eh. My place is pretty awesome of course, but the Circuit hasn't started yet, obviously, so I'm not really sure about numbers or anything."

Suddenly, Gilbert really _really _doesn't want to talk about this. They're family. They must have better things to discuss than board standings and the Game.

And honestly, he doesn't want to think about Ludwig, his you-idiot little brother Ludwig, entering the Game, quite yet.

And for a moment, the terrible, unstoppable thought, barreling through his mind like a derailed train: _Last year, God damn it, how many of the first-years survived…? _

So Gilbert quickly says, "Man, you've no idea what you're in for. This is gonna be the time of your life, here, Versus and all. You're, what, eighteen now right?"

"Uh, seventeen— "

"Meh. A little underage for drinking, but whatever. We're gonna party hard tonight, little bro. It's tradition to get the newbies so completely soused that they don't know which way's up. So none of that sulking in the corner shit I know you do all the time."

"Hey!" protests Ludwig, smiling a little. Yeah, his brother is annoying as ever. "Don't assume things. Who said I was going to sulk?"

"Yeeaaaah, man, you keep telling yourself that. 'S okay. You can be drier than the fucking Mars rock out there in the wild, so when the rest of us are wasted you can keep us from, I dunno, calling weapons or whatever."

"You know you're lucky you didn't back there, or else that guy would've nailed you too—"

"So you saw that! That Switzerland is a goddamned asshole. But wasn't the fight pretty damn awesome?"

"Well, it was _okay_—"

"Oh, is that a _challenge _I hear?"

They bicker the rest of the way to Germany House, where true to Gilbert's word, the upperclassmen are busy cracking beers open. Gilbert's sure the rest of the countries are doing much the same.

Ludwig disappears upstairs to unpack, after Gilbert extracts a promise from him to come down and join the party later. So for now he settles in the center of their living room, enjoying the half-admiring, half-fearful gazes of the German firsties, and sips his beer in what he considers a rather intimidating manner.

"Give 'em a talk, Gil, come on," one of the Germans calls eventually through the chatter. "Give the firsties some encouragement."

"Pep talk, Gil!"

"Pep talk, pep talk, pep talk—"

"Oh, shit, he did this last year, remember—"

"Fuck yeah, that was funny, remember when he said—"

"So what if the newbies are here? Big fucking deal," interrupts Gilbert, and almost everyone else shuts up immediately. "Don't think it matters, half of 'em will be crying for their mommies by the end of the month. That's right, you _verliererin_ better listen up!"

He chews on the tab of the can, picking his choicest words, and decides on:

"Unless you want your ass split wider than the ocean, don't go anywhere alone for a coupla months. Newbies like you can't go anywhere fun anyway, but don't think that makes you safe. Three's the magic number. Actually, more is better for weaklings like you."

"Tell them about the outsiders!" an eager German voice cries out.

"Ah, countries to watch out for…" Gilbert swivels in the chair, biting his lip. "The Russians, definitely. They're head-fucked. I heard their—whatever, leader people, put 'em all on percs all the time. That's personality-correction-drugs to you. Fucking _newbies_, more clueless every year. Anyway, they'll fight or fuck anything that moves, doesn't matter to them. They even go after Americans, after all."

He grins in response to the rough ripple of laughter, indicating that Americans are to be insulted in due order. "It's 'cause the women are ugly bitches and colder than winter up there."

Gilbert pauses, makes a show of thinking. "Yeah, look, don't fuck with Denmark either. Normally the Nordics are a bunch of pussies—there's like only a hundred of 'em all combined—but lately they're hopped up on something new. Or _off _something, probably. They're all _psycho _now. And watch out for Spain too."

"Spain? They're pretty damn weak," a fifth-year interjects.

"What're you fucking talking abo—oh. Well, no shit they are. I meant Antonio, duh."

There is a heavy awkward silence in which everyone tries not to look embarrassed, and which Gilbert ignores completely.

"Yeah, the rest of them suck balls. But Antonio, he's some fun. Half the time he's on Rush and the other half he's on Speed, and he can get that crowd pretty hyped up, so you gotta watch out for that. Just listen for his idiotic loud voice. Uh, well, other than that…"

Having descended some minutes earlier, Ludwig is beginning to get a headache, as the conversation turns to a systematic insulting, degrading, and dismissal of every other nation's fighters, weapons, average penis sizes, mothers, and so forth. The only one left out of the mess is—

"And that fucking bastard Switzerland, and his stupid rifle and his stupid _collars_. Bet he's watching us right now. Getting _off _on it. Ugh! What a total creep! Gayer than a rainbow, that _schwuler_. Hey, Switzerland! Lemme show you something really"—and Gilbert begins to unbuckle his pants, much to the hilarity of the rest of the room. He settles with flicking off the imaginary blonde and settling back into his chair.

After the laughter dies out in to a comfortable, beer-soaked calm:

"Hey Gilbert, have you heard about the Russian?"

"What? What's that? Who wants to hear about Russians? Why ruin a good day?"

"Nah, you idiot, for real, come on. You didn't hear? I thought everyone knew."

Gilbert opens his red eyes wide and snarls, "Can you hurry up and fucking _tell_ me."

"That number one Russian is off the board. Start of the damn season and he's not back yet."

"Huh." Gilbert's grate of a voice wrecks the silence that follows. "Since when'd you hear?"

"Since early this morning. I heard he's still in the hospital."

"Again?"

"Yeah, isn't that one always there?"

"I heard it was the whole summer this time—"

"Better for us," grins Gilbert after a heartbeat's pause. "Long as he keeps out of the fucking way, I'm happy."


	3. Chapter 3

(VS)

The streets of Versus are full of noise and chaos as the upperclassmen move back in and the newbies arrive, ready to reenter the Circuit, but in the hospital sitting smack-dab in the center of it all, it's like the eye of the hurricane.

In the hall, Feliciano walks past the room three times. Three's the magic number. After three he's supposed to be able to keep going, past this ordinary door and back to the entrance desk where he'll log more injuries, more surgeries, more recoveries.

It's the fourth time and he's still stuck.

Well, as a hospital aide he has the _right _to tend outsiders and what not. It's his job. Job! Even if the rest of Italy tends to stop talking when he skips into the room, or if he garners funny looks like the others do board points, or whatever.

But even irresponsible Feliciano knows this smells something of line-crossing.

Still, he's never been very good at denying himself things, so he decides to think about the possible treasonous consequences of the action later and steps in anyway. Nothing particularly dramatic happens as he crosses the threshold and softly clicks the door shut behind him. Settling into the chair by the bed, Feliciano fiddles with his fingers. God, this room is so empty. He thinks he'll bring some flowers next time, or something.

He glances towards the patient.

The man lying on the bed has a broad face carved into hard angles, bruises of shadows curled up in the curves of his eyes, and skin the color of faded paper.

He hasn't woken up in days.

He's also been the champion of the board for two years.

Not that Feliciano keeps up with these things—just another non-habit that the other Italians pin him with. Rather, he noticed this man some months ago for his fragility rather than his brute strength. With a slow jolt, Feliciano had realized that he had been in and out of the hospital a dozen or more times in a single month.

From there the curiosity built slowly, slowly in his stomach, from a rumble into a veritable earthquake. Feliciano had attempted to resist, really-honestly-tried. The others would give him credit for that, if they ever found out. Right?

Wrong, but the deed is already done. One slow, warm afternoon. Post-lunch fuzziness buzzed in his head. At that time, the hesitant fingers, the flickering eyes checked the empty hallway, paranoid. It felt so wrong, clandestinely reading files on an outsider, a _Russian_, for God's sake.

But two _oh-so-easy_ clicks and the page was open and harmless on the screen.

Ivan Braginski. Reigning champion of the board. Only two years from completing the Game.

Only two years…

_Ah. That's why—_

Back in the present Feliciano studies the way the light lines Ivan's wiry hair, mussed from long sleep. He notes the way the sweat beads on Ivan's forehead, his large hands composed solely of tortured white knuckle and blue, protruding vein.

Eight years in to the Circuit already.

And for that instant, Feliciano is very willing to trade in the alienation and the strange looks and the practically outsider status for not having to fight. Let the community bark about glory and beauty and strength. This man in front of him isn't glorious or beautiful or strong, buried six feet down in fever, limbs entombed in blankets and beeping machines doling out uncertain portions of survival. His body isn't beautiful, scarred as it is with the marks of a thousand surgeries, a thousand intrusions his body is finally beginning to reject. For God's sake, Ivan is only twenty five. Anywhere else, Feliciano knows, he'd have the rest of his life before him. But in Versus, he's already got one foot deep in the grave.

The Italian brushes the tear away angrily.

Silly, really. Feliciano can't do anything to save this man. He can't do anything to save _any_ of them.

Yet still he feels like a stab every trapped pair of eyes on him, the sounds of the strained voices in laughter, every bit of pained smile that says to him in a language universal: _Don't lie to me. There's no time left, is there? _

And he knows exactly what it feels like to feel your heart stop.

It feels—

Like this:

You walk into the room of a patient and are greeted with nothing but soft light and limp eyelids and the long, shrill beep.

And then, the rattle of the wheels as the body is taken away.

After all, you can only stuff a doll with so many foreign parts. You can only mold and break the mind willing with so many chemicals.

Before everything begins to go horribly, inalterably _wrong. _

(VS)

"Russia."

Brightness bleaches his vision as Ivan blurs to consciousness. The reverse of fainting? But that would just be waking up. Where is he? He registers the quiet beeping, the faintest-faint drip of the I.V. Ah.

His head screams.

Someone is—lovingly _caress-_ing the inside of his skull with a cheese grater. Positively, his mind is bleeding. Carved full of holes and gaps. He feels stuffed with cotton and metal. What'd they give him, this time? Why is he here? Why can't he remember?

"_Russia_." Irritation coats the instructor's voice. Thick, dripping. "Ivan. Are you awake?"

"Yes," he chokes out. "I'm." _Awake. Asleep. God, it hurts. _"How long have I…?"

"You have been unconscious for five days."

"Ah." The number stings him. Five. That's _weakness_, right there. "S-Sorry. I didn't—"

An impatient sigh cuts off the excuses. "The season starts in a week."

Ivan feels the intense need to bite his fingernails, to bits if necessary. _Concentrate. _He settles for weakly twisting a corner of the bedsheet around his finger, over and over, though his instructors have scolded him for wasting movement, showing distraction—over and over.

"Yeah. I guess it does," he eventually responds. _The first-years must have come over today_, Ivan remembers, and wonders what they're thinking about this place, right now. When he was a first-year… God, it's sickening to think how full of hope he must have been.

"Ivan"—funny how when it comes to the blame game it's not glorious-_Russia _anymore, because blame is always personal, isn't it?—"we're honestly rather disappointed in you. You've held leader on the board so far. It's true. We won't attempt to deny that. Your past performance has been quite satisfactory. But this summer has been ill spent. You are aware of that?"

"I am," Ivan murmurs. "I'm sorry. It's just—"

"_Just_?"

Purple eyes recoil wide. Ice shoots up his spine. Ivan tackles the whimper in his throat, wrestles it back down, where it scratches frantically at his stomach. _No_ more weakness. He refuses it.

The sheet is wound-unwound-wound, slightly faster.

"No. Never mind, it's nothing," he says, high, childish voice rising slightly with agitation.

"Are you _very_ sure?"

"No- I mean yes. I'm sure." He is losing focus, despite his best efforts. Why won't his body just obey him, like a good child, like it used to? "I'm sorry… but. Ah, what are we talking about, again?"

"The season. One week."

"Ah, um, yes—"

"We expect a lot of you, Ivan. Our nation"—Ivan flinches, not _that _word, please—"has placed a lot of faith in you. You are an investment. We have taken that leap of faith. You are very lucky to be chosen for this honor, of fighting for your country's advancement, your country's pride. Here, at Versus. Do not make the mistake of taking the opportunity for given. We expect to see that gift repaid, in full, upon our enemies. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"We should hope so. You won't make us explain this again."

"No," he whispers. The door is open, they are about to leave. A red-haired boy stands outside, unobserved.

"Oh. That's right. There was something else."

A mechanical, planned gap. Cold-jewel eyes glitter darkly.

"…Sorry?"

"Someone—came to see you."

Silence. Which way will the game turn?

"Natalia. Was her name."

They observe him, watch his mind turn, bending backwards around an invisible elephant in the room of his mind.

"Nat-… "

_Was _her name_? _

Suddenly the grater twists again and whiteness stabs him and his hand flinches to hold his head. The room throbs and warps around him, grinning, ghastly. It can't have been this bad last time. It can't get worse. Ivan will go insane. The pain will hold him down and he will die.

"I don't think I know who that is," he grits out through grinding teeth.

"Ah. Never mind. It was probably someone else she was looking for."

They leave a gaping hole in the wall as Russia reels halfway to unconsciousness. An open door, yes.

The red hair hesitates, but enters the room eventually.

"Do you need…?" Feliciano whispers, but Ivan does not understand Italian. In any case, he is too wrapped in papery scars and snow-blank mind to pay attention to the red. He is trying very hard not to shiver, but also, the room seems very cold.

And he cannot shake the feeling that he is missing something.

(VS)

As the night draws on in to the darkest hours before morning, Gilbert can't seem to get drunk enough to forget. Damnit, is it so much to ask? The same damn conversation keeps spinning through his head.

_Time: Several months previous, in the heart of summer's laugh. Scene: Hospital room 404. Situation: Unwelcome intrusion of a certain Frenchman named Francis. Gilbert was still incredibly weak from the surgery, though he'd never admit it, so he could only draw himself up a few centimeters in preparation for the oncoming taunts, and set his lips to that thin sneer they fit so well. _

_Strangely, the expected insults never get there. Instead, what came out was: _

_Are you ever afraid?_

Shocked, punctured silence reigned supreme. _Of what? _He'd answered, arrogantly. _Don't think someone like you could—_

_That's not what I'm talking about. _

_What _are_ you talking about then? God damn it. Get to the point. _

_Come _on_. We're five years in. After this summer is over… we're sixth-years now, you understand? That fucking Spaniard Antonio too. We're halfway through the Circuit. _

_Damn straight. I _can _count, you know. What's your point? _

_Just…think about it. How many of your classmates are still alive?_

_More than yours, that's for sure. _

_Fuck! You're so… Just _one _minute, can you be serious about anything? I know you feel it too. Antonio told me he… anyway, you know exactly what I'm talking about. _Francis had clutched his scars through the thin hospital gown—no loud, brash colors of nations here, just the smothering universal white of invalids. _ It gets a bit tiring, doesn't it? Just a _bit_. After the. _Hisvoice cracked here, and Gilbert struggled to understand the uneven muddled German and French. _Fuck, the thirtiest time, the fortieth time. It's all the same after a while. But it builds up, doesn't it? I don't even know how often the three of us have been here, anymore. And for what? So we can get stronger, and stronger, and then what? _

_Now, really. Don't tell me you never think about any of this._

And Gilbert had stared stubbornly back, held his spine straight as could be. Had forced the smile to remain on his lips. No, of course you didn't know what the hell Francis is talking about. Tired? Not you. Stronger? Stronger than you, for sure. Would have been the appropriate response.

Francis laughed, muted. _Actually, probably, you don't. You never…. Never mind. A waste of fucking time. _

And then.

_No. I—_

It had ringed loudly in the watchful air of the hospital.

No _what_?

Francis' voice silently asked, _Gilbert?_

But that was as far as Gilbert was willing to go.

_Get out, Francis. If you stayed any longer—well, I wouldn't want you to get injured again, would I? _The typical nasty sneer framed the scene.

Francis turned away, moving slowly.

_Never mind, Gilbert. _

_Never mind. _

(VS)

In a very different part of the community, the new Danes are settling in as well. Matthias knows he should be there to greet them, maybe give 'em a couple warnings or something, but no—here he is, in a Godforsaken corner of the forgotten upper room of the library, talking in whispers instead of drunken brash shouts, Talking, for fuck's sake, to another _nation, _instead of greeting his own, as it very much should be.

Matthias hates himself for hating it, but he supposes in a place like Versus there's never really any other thought, in the end.

"Listen, Lukas," he starts.

The boy besides him jerks away. "Don't call me that." The voice, though low and hushed, is full of an intense, angry heat.

"What the fuck am I supposed to call you then? _Norway? _I mean, come on. Don't do this. You're just being—"

"Just being _what_? Denmark—"

"_Denmark—?"_

"_Fuck!" _Lukas snaps, his will cracking._ "_Mat- Matthias, then, you idiot. Can you _think_ for a second! This isn't. It won't work. I…." It's mortifying the way his voice breaks, the way his eyes prickle.

Matthias reaches up, the callused, worn fingers hovering above Lukas' cheeks.

"Shit, man. Lukas. Don't. Just don't… God, _sorry_. I'm sorry—"

"_No_." Lukas wants to flail, to scream childishly at how childish he sounds. "Don't. You're never sorry. If you were so _sorry_ you would have stopped this a long time ago."

"Stopped this? I"—helpless, vague gestures in the air, how can Matthias encompass what _this _is?—"How could I have stopped _this_? You're acting like it's something under my control—"

"You could have! I know you could, if you'd actually really wanted to! Wow. Really."

Lukas glares at Matthias. Let Matthias give him that hurt-puppy look. He's done enough to hurt both of them, already.

"I can't believe you can't see that this is so _stupid_," Lukas continues relentlessly. "What are you trying to do? They'll kill us when they find out. Don't think they won't. Do you want that? Would you be happy to know I died for you or you for me? If you're the type of person who would be, I never want to talk to you again. That's—you're just throwing it away, aren't you? This isn't a drama on the television. We're not _actors_. This is real. And you, you can't pretend that it'll all be all right."

"And?" Matthias shoots back, beyond frustrated, beyond confused. "So what if it won't all be all right? You can't know that. And anyway, what do you want me to _do _about it? I know—I _know_ you won't believe me, but I wasn't kidding when I said I couldn't stop this. And that's the truth. I don't know if you think too much of me—I'm not that strong. And _this_ is bigger and stronger than me. Or maybe you're just afraid. I don't know if—"

"And you're saying you're not afraid?"

As Matthias' glance breaks away, Lukas can feel something crumbling slowly inside his chest. Damn it, the other man might be larger and older but Lukas feels so often that Matthias is the child in this relationship.

Look at the mass of him, so elegant in the Dome but so awkward _now_, fiddling with his gloves, eyes refusing to confront the troubles pressing against them. What an absolute fool.

"Matthias?" Lukas asks, the syllables smooth against his mouth.

"I am scared to death," Matthias says, smiling vaguely at his hands, and the room feels warmer to Lukas already. "I have been for three years, already. I'm a coward, Lukas. But that doesn't change anything."

Resolve dies as the Dane reaches for his fingers, pressing them carefully in his.

"Damn it," mutters Lukas. _Why do you always have to be so—_

"Sorry," whispers Matthias, not sounding sorry at all. He presses a tiny kiss to the smaller boy's forehead, and hugs him, and they sit in silence for a few minutes, letting the library books watch, letting them _not judge_, and that is the best feeling of all.

"Seriously though. We have to think this through. There has to be something we can…"

"I _have_ thought about it. For hours and hours. And." Matthias shrugs, helpless, a pained grin. "Sorry, but there's nothing we can do. Not in this system, not here. You and me, we're just two people. And the Game is. Well, it's the Game, isn't it."

Lukas sighs. "I just wish—"

"Sh," says Matthias, leaning close as the rest of the sentence breaks off. "I know."


	4. Chapter 4

(VS)

USA House is fun, and the other Americans are fun, they really are. Alfred's already made a lot of new friends.

But a few days pass, and as the start of the season looms large, Alfred finds that old curiosity burning back up inside him. He'd tried to quash it, all through training and school and the ride to Versus, even. But it's still there.

What did they expect, those instructors? Telling them to hate hate _hate _all those other nations, and not expect them to wonder even a _little bit _what they were actually _like_? Isn't it practically _natural _to have treasonous feelings, to wonder, once in a while?

Well.

Not that it seems to be bothering Alfred's other classmates. They're doing just fine in USA House.

Okay, fine, so maybe Alfred is a little different. Whatever.

So he makes up his mind to it.

The rest of his classmates can sit around, Alfred decides. It's not like he's going against them or anything. He'll just—slip off, for a little.

So one day, before he can think too hard about the whole idea, Alfred tugs on the one coat he owns without some sort of identifying American sign on it, and bounces out the door, closing it decisively behind him. The air is chilly against his cheek as he glances back several times to make sure no American is following him, watching him.

Too late, Alfred wonders if his lack of insignia won't be enough of a disguise—the other nations wear them all the time, after all, and won't they notice him then? He begins walking, deciding he'll decide that when he gets there.

But then there's the other problem—where's _there_?

Fuck, they've never (obviously, duh) studied any of the other nations. Kinda weird, but whatever. And as hard as Alfred tries to conjure up images of the other first-years he briefly saw at the landing area, the only image that floats through his head is the word "barbarian."

If they see him will they attack on sight? Do people from other countries look different? They weren't, like, _blue _or anything, at least. But can't you tell, just by looking, an outsider from an insider? It seems to make sense. But, technically and all, why would there be a huge difference if they were all human?

Shit.

He should have thought this out.

The ominously silent streets (they're called no man's land, the tense gaps between the nations' houses where fights break out nearly daily) are starting to majorly creep Alfred out. Maybe he should just go back.

Come to think of it, Alfred may be in bigger trouble than he thought. In his ponderings, wandering randomly on in this long, empty street, Alfred's suddenly realizes not quite sure where he is. His feet ache with cold. How far has he walked?

He glances over at the Dome, visible from everywhere in the community, beginning to place where USA House should be. Shit, he's somehow come pretty far. He's pretty much on the opposite side of the Dome than where he started. They might be looking for him by now. And he still hasn't seen a single outsider.

Disappointed, Alfred's on the verge of heading back when he hears a very familiar sound, filtering through the air like a lifeline.

Is that…

English?

Trying very hard not to look like an American, his heart beating at hummingbird pace, Alfred hurries down the alleyway. Something on the surface of his mind whispers _this isn't a good idea, it smells of treason all over_ but Alfred squashes it down forcefully. Let the voices of the instructors whisper away, he's been waiting too long for this. This is what _he _wants, Alfred reassures himself, and manages to keep himself from wimping out and running back to USA House.

Sound travels in deceptive ways in these empty quarters, and Alfred's much farther away from the source of it than he'd thought. When he finally does arrive, Alfred's lucky because there's a big soccer game going on and no one really notices a random ruffled looking blonde sliding up to the edge of the crowd, eyes wide with nervous expectation.

He's in the heart of enemy territory.

This is it. This is the moment.

Alfred takes a deep breath and furtively looks around.

It's.

Well.

It's not as…

Different as he'd expected.

The air rings with thick accents, enough to make Alfred reel, but other than that, it's just a street full of scruffy young people kicking a ball around and having fun. They don't _look _like they're out for blood.

Actually, looking around, it's rather difficult to imagine that most of these people have probably killed other nations in the Game, have wielded their weapons against America itself. They're just, people. Doing people things. Even the UK House, which is apparently where he's arrived at, doesn't look very different from USA House.

Alfred is torn between a weird disappointment and the bare edge of relief.

Meanwhile, the game rages before him.

"Pass it this way—"

"Come on, you wanker, come on, come on—"

"You all right?—"

"God, someone get me some water," and Alfred is positively _fascinated _with the way the word rolls of the man's tongue, sounding more to him like whah-tuh than the familiar waw-ter.

Entranced, buzzing with a strange kind of happiness, Alfred watches in comfort until—

"Hey, you!"

And Alfred turns around, and there's a kind of scrawny kid there with green eyes and huge eyebrows eyeing him and _fuck, oh fuck, oh God oh God oh God he's talking to me, fuck what do I do_, _they know, I'm so so so screwed—_

"What're you bloody standing around and watching for? Get in!" He takes Alfred's shoulders and spins him around and shoves—

And before he knows what's really happened, Alfred is the an American in the middle of a very much British soccer game, A ball is flying past his nose and his "teammates" are yelling at him and what's worse (or better, actually, probably?) is that no one suspects a thing and it all isn't real, it can't be real, this is too fucking surreal.

Alfred almost has to laugh.

He's in a game, but not the Game. He's playing the game-not-Game with a bunch of outsiders, who have no fucking _clue _he's an American. He's standing right the Hell smack-dab in front of the UK House and _no one can see the difference _and _no one is trying to kill him _and _no one knows. _

Is it wrong this makes him happy?

_I'm so in trouble later, _Alfred thinks, and kicks the ball hard.

An hour passes, and _later_ becomes _now_.

As awesome as it is to play, Alfred's heart still pounds from far more than adrenaline. He plays a middling game, so that no one finds occasion to talk to him, and he clamps his mouth shut the whole way through. A single American word out of his mouth and there's a crowd of Brits waiting to kill him, Alfred is sure, even though it's hard to imagine it when that British kid from earlier goes sprawling in the street, yelling curses, and Alfred gives him his hand without really thinking about it and hauls him back up.

And he leaves the game pretty early, and no one bothers him on his way out, though he does receive one terrifying clap on the back as another player switches in.

As Alfred hurries back through the quiet, watching streets, trying to speed up the long journey back to USA House, he has the audacity to complement himself on a good sneak job, overall. For God's sake, he was in a fucking UK soccer game! That's something he bets none of the upperclassmen have done. Not that he's going to tell anyone, of course. Nope. People might call him an idiot but even he knows better than that. This one was going down with Alfred F. Jones, forever and ever. Key swallowed and all that mess.

Except for the part when he gets back to USA House and the door opens before he can touch it and the instructor is snarling in his face, dragging him up the stair by his un-insignia-ed coat collar and roaring at him—

"What were you thinking, Jones, what the Hell did you think you were doing, you always were a troublemaker, never did listen, never did—"

And he's stumbling up the stairs and half-saying something, trying to stammer out an excuse until the teacher mows him over with the incriminating question.

"So tell us, Alfred Jones, why were you leaving the US sector?"

_Fuck_, thinks Alfred. _Fuck. _

(VS)

Alfred's not the only one getting himself in to trouble, these tense seven days before the Circuit starts. He's not the only one seeking other nations outside of the Dome.

Because Antonio may be in the hospital and even Francis may be keeping his head down until the Games start, but Gilbert'll be fucked if he's going to stop making noise. C'mon. This is when screwing with the other nations is funnest, when you haven't seen them all summer and the rumors fly and you can make threats without following them up in the Dome (yet).

So Gilbert keeps talking, his eyes glowing, on the intersection of no man's land, even as his brother watches with a muted disapproval from the side.

"You know, I'm finally beginning to see why you keep that Nordic bitch around. I mean, I thought you were an _idiot _or something. But man! That was the best fuck I've had since—"

"Norway has nothing to do with me," grinds out Denmark in heavily accented German, snarling a smile that informs the younger man, _this is the line, and you are about to cross it. _

"_Norway?_" crows Gilbert, stepping on over, _thanks for the invitation_. "That's fucking cold, _Matthias_! See, I'll even use your fucking name, you piece of shit Dane. But really, the way you say it you could be talking about anyone. Is that really what you call him when you're in bed together? Oh, ew, don't tell me it's some sort of kinky thing—"

Very fast, two things happen.

Denmark's glove disintegrates as the nanomachines in his blood begin to form the axe handle in his hand.

At almost the same moment, Denmark himself slams into the ice-scarred ground with an exclamation point of a crack.

Ludwig is admittedly fascinated with the speed at which the blood proceeds to sprint out of the outsider's head. There is a veritable _pond_ in a matter of seconds. It steams.

Gilbert pouts.

"Now what the hell was that for, Sweden?"

Sweden_. _

His turquoise eyes are embedded in his pale face like hard jewels. His spine is straighter than a crowbar. His hair is spiked ice. He towers_. _

Evidently, Sweden cannot understand German. Or maybe the total lack of change in facial expression is just natural for him, Ludwig doesn't know which. In any case he opts not to respond, just crouches over Denmark and drags him up by the collar of his jacket. The smaller man is dripping in a steady scarlet string.

"Ooooh," drawls Gilbert. "I got it. _You _just wanna fight him in the match tomorrow. I forgot all about that."

Right, Ludwig thinks. Because if Denmark calls his weapon, then he'll get collared for sure, and then he'll be on probation, and then. No match for Denmark, no match for Sweden.

The crowd of Danes look on, but don't do anything. They seem more curious than sympathetic. It occurs to Ludwig that Gilbert may not have been kidding about the Norway thing. And that's—just—

Fighting outsiders is fine. Killing them would be preferable if not for Switzerland's hawk of an eye. But talking with them? Learning their barbaric languages, even if just to taunt them? And the whole idea of sex-as-intimacy rather than sex-as-intimidation?

W_eird. _

Weird in the same way Gilbert is weird.

Ludwig shivers. Out of all the people in the community to be related to…

"Hey, I'm talking to you, you know."

Sweden doesn't say anything. Just drags Denmark up the street, painting the snow with an uneven red trail. Denmark does not regain consciousness. Sweden does not let up on his pace.

At the hospital, Feliciano lets out a miniature squeak as Sweden stomps in, dropping the blonde with a wet fracturing sound. Half-waking, Denmark twitches on the ground. Sweden then promptly swivels 180 degrees and marches back out in to the cold.

Feliciano runs for a nurse, and the man is shoved onto a stretcher and wheeled away.


	5. Chapter 5

(VS)

"And without further ado, we have the first Game of the season!"

Alfred yells as loudly as he can, clapping until his fingerprints burn and pumping his fist in the air. _See_, he almost wants to say the teacher pointedly staring at him from a few feet behind him, _I love America as much as the rest of them. _

Apparently they'd only seen him leaving the House, not going to the UK sector, and certainly not playing in the soccer game, thank God. The punishment still majorly sucked though: Alfred was permitted to watch the opening matches later in the day with the rest of America, but was banned from the first 10 days of Games—a major head start to his fellow first-years.

Instead he's to spend the time in the library, where fucking _no one _will be, writing a stupid report on the history and importance of the Games in international politics.

Whoop-de-fucking-doo. _There goes my board ranking_, Alfred thinks gloomily. Oh well.

In the clamor of the Dome, though, it's hard to think anything at all, let alone gloomily. Each nation roars its name, trying to drown out all the others until the Dome is spilling over with noise and bloodthirst.

Switzerland has no taste for ceremony, and promptly kills the frenzy by yelling, "Shut up and listen, you idiots!"

In the chastised semi-silence following, he clears his throat and says, "To start the season we'll have three battles amongst some of the previous year's board leaders. Let this be a motivation to each of you to work your way up and do your nation proud. The matches will start promptly at 20:00 tonight, so teachers, please be ready. Now"—

The lights flicker out with an ominous hum.

The enormous board behind Switzerland lights up and begins cycling rapidly through the names of the participating nations. Crowded against his classmates in the dark, Alfred stares the Cyclops defiantly in its single glowing eye, arms crossed. But he can't defy the thrill in his heart, the mouthwatering black beat demanding, _let it be America, America, America! _

One by one, the three massive rows grind to a halt, the numbers towering over them, grinning in the night. Despite having seen the country codes dozens of times, somehow Alfred can't seem to make the cold numbers match up with the faces of the nations he remembers from the hall. Which-one-which-one-_whichone_ is that, Goddamnit? Uh, 7-8-1-1, that's…

As the screams start up again, Switzerland enlightens him.

"Denmark versus Sweden. China versus Germany. England versus France."

(VS)

There's a few hours to kill until the Games start, so each nation bounces back to its quarters, babbling excitedly like children in their various languages. Smelling phantom blood in the air, blood _not _safe in the veins for long, blood about to coat the bodies of their enemies, they smile and slick their lips.

Ludwig smells it too. He manages to elbow his way through the mob thronging around Gilbert.

"Gil. Gilbert!"

"What's up, little bro?"

The eager Germans thrust Ludwig towards Gilbert until they're squished uncomfortably together, shoulder-to-sweaty-brother's shoulder.

"I said what's up? Or didja just come to bask in my awesomeness? That's _right_!" The German sea around them heaves in thunderous applause, whoops of pure-idiotic-Deutschland pride.

"No, come on Gilbert," says an embarrassed Ludwig. "Seriously."

He doesn't know quite how to start this without sounding treasonous. All he should be feeling, as a German, is elation at being picked, and lust for the blood of those Chinks. Furthermore, to die in battle is positively _glorious_. This is a fact. You will be avenged by your brothers and sister afterwards, many times over. It's fact, damn it. It's logic.

More importantly, it's all part of the Games.

But somehow…

Ludwig feels worried.

"For the match tonight. Well… Who's…"

Gilbert just smiles a hard smile, holding Ludwig's gaze in the optical equivalent of a knuckle-cracking grip of a handshake.

Ludwig is suddenly, pathetically aware that he could pick any German out of this crowd squeezing them together, and he or she would know this man he calls "brother" better than he does. Those red eyes are unreadable. Or, just maybe, they're a confused cocktail of joy and lust and anger and _what-the-fuck-am-I-doing_.

And the smell of blood, of _damn it, Ludwig, don't look at me like that. You don't know anything, do you, little brother? _Of _stop _fucking_ trying to save me. _

"Of course it's me," says Gilbert.

"We'll win, you know," says Ludwig. His words feel so useless in the wake of the future.

"I know," replies Gilbert. Uselessly.

Because there's never been any other answer.

(VS)

Time limps and crawls and _snail-s_ its way on. Alfred's ankle muscles are beginning to hurt from tapping his foot so many times. His knee is jiggering up and down in that weird reflex reaction.

The actual seats in the Dome are reserved for visitors, so he and his classmates are seated in neat rows on the hard seats of their house's auditorium. Clicking his visor off for the moment and glancing around the crowded room, Alfred has to admit that they look like they're being brainwashed by a cult or something. Everyone is sitting stiff-backed, not talking, ears covered with giant headphones, eyes and identity masked in Fullvision visors hooked up to the Dome's live stream of the fight, the same stream that'll be broadcast to Man Home.

But then a collectivegasp informs Alfred that the first battle has started, and he hastily shoves the visor back in front of his eyes, just in time to hear the announcer start up.

"The time is twenty hours even. The first match is: Denmark versus Sweden. Enviroment: Random," a cool female voice announces. "Weapons: Call. Parties, are you ready?"

Standing on opposite sides of the enormous Dome floor, the two nations tense.

"Yes," says Denmark, new bandages evident around his forehead.

"Yes," answers Sweden evenly as well.

"Very well. In ten seconds the match will commence. May the best nation win."

"Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six."

_Five_, mouths Alfred. _Four. Three_.

"Two."

"One."

Ready or not, here it comes.

(VS)

In a rush of disorientation, the entire floor—no, the whole Dome—has vanished like wind-whipped smoke, replaced by an elaborate illusion consuming viewers and players alike.

Sun seems to stream in a concentrated beam through gold-edged leaves and pearly spiderweb strands coating the old temple's ancient pillars, which lie strewn about the floor along with chunks of the partially collapsed ceiling. Vines drip across the stone, cracking it in a slow strong grip. The edges of the place and the wilderness crawling in to the building are bathed in darkness. The only signs of what was once a high-tech battle arena are the floating, moving cameras, discreetly recording the battle and transmitting it into the live feed that Alfred watches from.

Both contestants have vanished.

Even as he plummets headfirst through gusting air and whirling graphics, the Dane, Matthias, spins so his feet hit the ground solidly as the Dome environment settles down. He lands in a patch of dense vegetation some ten meters out from the temple—a small setting, Matthias notes, with little room for maneuvering outside of the clear area of the floor. The hyper-sensitive sensors in his nose instantly pick up scent upon scent—musty stone, sweet flowers, packed dust in the air—but cannot find the Swede's signature amongst them all.

Well, no matter. He was never one for strategy or sneak attacks anyway.

The sound of the announcer's voice filters weakly through the air, distorted and thin as sunlight seen through water, as Matthias' gloves melt away and he calls his massive axe to his side.

In a swift motion he bounds through the plants to land skidding in the center of the temple floor.

As Matthias jumps he turns, because he registers a shadow suddenly stretching over him. Sure enough, there's Berwald bringing his enormous greatsword down in a wide swing meant to part Matthias' head from the rest of him. Matthias brings his axe up to block. The parried blow rings through the axe handle, and Matthias' arms tense as the force speeds through his body, violently spiderweb-cracking the floor below him. They struggle on the fracturing ground for a moment, before the Dane arches his back and kicks violently upwards towards his challenger's stomach. The Swede promptly leaps back, breaking the deadlock as Matthias too springs up.

Berwald immediately recloses the distance between them, and the fight turns to a furious series of bone-rattling blows. One parry missed, with hits of this much force, spells instant death. However, the considerable size of their weapons only permits relatively slow action, as both parties have to draw far back each hit to even get sufficient force going. With their skills fairly well matched, neither fighter is at a strong advantage in close combat. But Matthias knows that Berwald, damn him, has better stamina than he and will win if the fight goes on like this. Which is why the Swede keeps closing any distance Matthias tries to open between them.

So Matthias jumps over the next swing and presses his foot into the blade. Berwald's arms tilt involuntarily downwards as he refuses to let go of the sword, while Matthias is lifted upwards and pivots one-two-three times in midair into an immense wallop of a strike. Berwald barely has time to parry, and the hit is unusually strong due to the extra momentum: as such, he is knocked backwards several meters. While Berwald staggers and straightens, Matthias dives as far back as he can and executes another spin, spearing a nearby hunk of fallen ceiling with his weapon and pitching it discus-style at the Swede, the momentum of the massive object forcing the Dane even further back.

Berwald, for his part, is still off-balance when he looks up to find a massive chunk of rock hurtling towards him. He curses and leaps from a standing start to the top of the toppling slab. Only to find another barreling towards him, which he again leaps over to find yet another piece slamming his way.

That damn Matthias is trying to keep him away, fence him in, is he?

So Berwald leaps _forwards _from the shifting rock underneath him, arching his back and smashing the sword from over his head into the next section of pillar flying towards him. He grits his teeth in a pained smile as the blow crawls up his arms in a fiery jolt and the stone splits, splintering in to a hundred smaller chunks from the point of impact. As he falls forward, he bats aside the head-sized pieces falling around him, landing in a crouch on a clear area of the floor.

Only adrenaline-fueled senses save Berwald from being split in half by the Dane, who has taken the chance to leap to the hole in the ceiling and push off it back towards his opponent, his body rocketing forwards and twisting sideways to bring the axe forward with maximum strength.

The move relies on enormous speed and strength to bring the opponent down, an aggressive finishing move typical of Matthias. Its advantage is that it is nearly impossible to block and gives the opponent very little time to dodge.

On the other hand, its weakness is that one needs move very little at all to avoid it.

_Idiot_, thinks Berwald, as he bounds to the side. _He never did think anything through._ The Dane is unable to change his course and slams into the floor in a shower of dislodged rock, the axe head burying itself some half a meter deep into the floor.

This moment lies completely to Berwald's advantage. Matthias must let go of the weapon or be killed. And Berwald knows perfectly well even Matthias isn't _that_ stupid. So he brings his blade down in a light arc, and as expected, Matthias yells a curse and springs away from his weapon, leaving it impaled in the floor while Berwald charges him.

Berwald only has perhaps two seconds until Matthias re-calls his weapon. Already he can hear the metallic slithering noise as the axe disintegrates into a frantic wave of particles behind him. He allows himself half a triumphant smile as he swings the sword straight at the Dane's chest.

_Fuck. Fuck! Half a second, half a second is all I need_, is what Matthias is thinking as the weapon heads towards him.

So he does the stupidest thing possible. As—not?—expected.

The sword's trajectory grinds to a stop as Matthias claps both his massive hands against the flat of the blade, moving so rapidly his arms seem to blur. Taken off guard, Berwald struggles to yank it out of the other's grasp, twisting the blade violently. Matthias grimaces and smiles as the sword jolts in his hands, pouring them full with bloody cuts, his arms shaking with the force needed to keep his opponent from pulling his sword back.

Then—_finally_—Matthias' weapon bursts back to his side in a flurry of metal. He releases the blade and leaps away from the Swede. Thinly, he hears the warped roar of the Dome crowd, raving at the first draw of blood. Slobbering. Craving more. Matthias winces in disgust. His injured hands burn against the caress of his own weapon, and thick lines of blood streak down his sleeves.

Before either fighter can make another move, a massive cracking noise announces itself, the slow-fast death groan of the illusion. The pieces of stone Matthias threw—it seems three centuries ago, in the heat of battle-twisted time—are slamming in to the temple wall, and the whole structure is collapsing to its knees. Two glances and both nations are sprinting towards the hole in the ceiling as the building falls inwards.

Airborne, they slam into each other in a deathly embrace. As they tumble through space, each struggles to land on top of the other.

In the now opened ground of the temple, Berwald manages to press the Game to his advantage, refusing to let Matthias get away from him. Hit after hit, he knows he is bringing his opponent's strength down, little by little. The typical Game between players like him and Matthias, neither of whom favor strategy, traps, or other less direct forms of confrontation, lasts perhaps ten minutes maximum.

But this match seems to drag on and on. Though the Swede can feel Matthias breaking, the Dane still matches him well, parrying and dodging and grinning that infuriating, sweat-soaked grin.

As they struggle, the world narrows to him and his opponent.

All their training, all their mentors' words forgot, even (perhaps?) to the extent of their pride for their nations—is lost. All that is left is sword and hit and strength, the ultimate individuality. Here on the floor of the Dome the players can know theirhumanity in a way that few humans ever have the opportunity to experience; their strengths, their weaknesses, every flaw or virtue in them laid bare.

Their weaknesses—

And for one golden moment Matthias is wide open, suddenly, after minutes of excruciating combat. The Swede closes in fast. With a player of Matthias' ability, no opportunity can be grasped swiftly enough.

_Game over, Matthias_, Berwald thinks.

_Game over—_

It was a stupid, irrational thing, in retrospect, but there is that half-millisecond of pause, that half-millisecond of just another emotion in the middle of all the raging emotions of battle.

The word seems to be stuck in Berwald's head even as his sword falls forward, hell bent on its path—

_Over—_

Then.

The sword curves just a little to the side.

Instead of the sure blow of before, this one aborts to the air by Matthias' shoulder, easily allowing him to sidestep.

_What the hell was that? _thinks Matthias.

_Did that damn Swede just—_

No, this is the right thing to do.

The swing continues, down, around, back towards Matthias. The stupid Dane's wide blue eyes are still confused as the blade heads steady—no mistake this time—for the side of his head. And they lock sights, blue eyes holding blue again in the steady grip of combat while sword kisses flesh.

Alfred can't help jumping up from his seat as the beastly screams of the Dome overwhelms his headphones, mixing with the noises made by his classmates, who are all bellowing and yelling as the Dane falls to the floor. The broken temple seems to strip away in peeling numbers and lights, blasting away sideways in an electronic wind. For a moment the two small figures, one on the floor and the other still standing, are burned invisible by the light.

Then the polished black of the battledome floor is back again in a _ringing _sort of darkness, and the announcer's voice is loud over the racket of the crowd:

"Game over. The victor is Sweden."

"What the _fuck _d'ya mean 'Game over'?" yells one of Alfred's discontented classmates. "That wasn't even"—

It's true that very few of the upper level Games end without a death.

Alfred's heart pounds loudly, threatening to beat straight out of his veins as adrenaline rockets through his system.

_Not dead. He's not dead. _

The relief feels filthy but it is undeniable.

Meanwhile, standing alone in the middle of the black infinity of the Dome floor, Sweden feels a headache coming on as the yells swarm the air above him, circling, like trapped fish. Everything spins. He lets the sight of Denmark's pale, still face below him anchor him.

_Why?_


	6. Chapter 6

(VS)

Type type type. _Clickety click click._

Alfred looks at the clock. 10:39.

More typing. More clicking.

A major yawn threatens to split his skull in half. Alfred risks another glance at the clock.

10-fucking-40.

"You've got to be kidding me," he groans.

The fights of yesterday echoing away in his head, and harboring a major headache from the early-dawn partying last night (or this morning), Alfred finds it absolutely excruciating to now be condemned to essay-writing in the library. He is _seventeen. _If he's old enough to kill, how is he _not _old enough to _not _have to do this?

See. His thoughts wander again. This thing is never going to get done.

Disappointed, Alfred skims over the meager paragraphs lying before him.

_After the third World War of over half a century past, it was evident that nuclear warfare was no longer a viable option for warfare—it was far too destructive, far too devastating, resulting in long-term damage that threatened to break Earth itself apart. But everyone knew the psychological disadvantages of long pent-up frustration, the frustration that built without the necessity of war. What would be the solution to this problem? _

_The Versus system was the answer. It was agreed that the best and strongest representatives from every nation would join the Versus community to be established on Mars, competing in state-of-the-art battle arenas, training with the best and newest equipment, in order to defend the pride and honor of their respective nations. In place of conventional warfare, these representatives' actions would determine the social, political, and economic fates of—_

_Blah blah blah—_

Seriously, who gave a shat. Shit. Was shat the past form of shit, anyway? That didn't even make sense, grammatically.

Okay, it's definitely time for a break, even if it's only mid-morning of the day one.

Away from the confinement of his computer, Alfred wanders around and begins to think that the abandoned library is actually kind of a cool place. It's retro and has these nearly floor-to-ceiling shelves full of printed, physical books. Unlike the screens, Alfred can actually run his fingers over these, feel the bindings, the threads, the worn pages glowing in the warm light washing in from enormous windows and faraway lights in the ceiling.

Unfortunately, it is really quiet, which Alfred doesn't like so much.

So quiet that when the faintest strains of music filter through the air, Alfred's enhanced ears perk up to the sound instantly.

Ah hah, so there _is _someone else here. Thank the Lord almighty, he'll go insane if he's got no one to talk to for the next 10 days.

But the music is faint and wavering, and though Alfred's pretty sure it's coming from somewhere above him, there are no stairs evident in the library. Frustrated, he circles outside and eyes the building. No, there's definitely room for an upper story.

After wasting just over an hour running around the building, Alfred finally unearths a creaky metal spiral staircase. Circling enticingly upwards, it's well hidden behind several ancient piles of papers and bookcases thrown haphazardly at the (apparently not) end of a corridor, which itself contains nothing but a pair of dysfunctional restrooms. The place is hardly convenient to get to, and Alfred has to squeeze past several obstacles to even reach the foot of the stair.

Alfred clangs his way up as fast as he can because it feels like each step is enough to break the tenuous steps beneath him. It's a long long way to ascend and he kind of gets bored and thinks about going back before this thing fucking collapses, but that music's still there so he keeps going.

At the top there are skylights, unexpectedly.

He's in a dim circular room with a few corridors snaking off into dark. The air is dusty and thick and very, mmm, not that Alfred's ever been there but very _Earth _feeling, and the light is yellow and butter-fat, shooting in like columns in a temple.

The music—piano?—is loud, up here, and incompetently played enough to make Alfred have to stifle a laugh with his fist. Evidently the player has no idea he's there yet. He wouldn't, either, if he was playing that badly, that loudly.

Waving his hands through the air and watching the dust swirl around them, Alfred opens the door, because he doesn't know what else to do.

The music stops very fast, and Alfred is staring at a scrawny looking kid with a mop of blonde hair and wide leaf eyes and _those goddamn eyebrows, I remember_. Before he can stop himself Alfred blurts out, "You were at that soccer match!"

The unbelievable _American -_ness of his voice just spills all over the place, messily.

Breathing shallowly, the other boy says, "I was, yeah, and you were too, and you're America," and Alfred sees him tense. The boy's hands ball into clumsy fists on top of the old-fashioned, silent keys, and he can almost hear the fear of him, of not being prepared to kill.

"I'm not," says Alfred.

"Really, now," the boy snaps, "because I think—"

"I'm not America," says Alfred. "I'm Alfred Jones."

They regard each other, nation to nation, but looking very much like a pair of confused seventeen-year-olds.

It is a breaking point and Alfred knows it and this boy knows it too. Alfred's offered his end of the olive branch. It's up to the other boy to take it.

For a brief moment Alfred's afraid he's judged him wrong, and half-prepares for an attack, when—

"Arthur," offers Arthur, reflexively, warily. "I'm Arthur."

Alfred points at the piano. "Beethoven."

"Sorry?" The boy is startled in to politeness.

"You were playing Beethoven, man. Right?"

"Uh. Yeah…"

"Dude, first, you kinda sucked. And second, Beethoven's Austrian, isn't he."

Arthur's eye twitches a little—some _American _barging on in and now he's insulting him? But he just settles on saying, "Nooo. He's German," because this whole situation is too completely detached and, just, _weird _for him to take the rather ordinary route of attacking the other boy.

"Whatever. He's _not_—British, anyway."

"Yeah? Why d'you think I'm up here anyway? And _you're_ not exactly trying very hard to kill me," Arthur points out.

"Touché."

"And _that's _definitely not Americanish."

"Uh, it's called English, dude."

"Really?"

"Totally for real. Whatadya think I'm talking right now?"

"Wait… but that's just silly. Aren't _we _England? So if we speak English shouldn't you people talk Americanish or something? It seems to follow."

"I guess," says Alfred. "They don't teach us, you know, _real _history so I don't know—"

"Us neither—"

"But we're totally talking to each other, aren't we? And we—we get—what each other are saying. So…."

Alfred watches Arthur's fingers uncurl slowly in the silence, on the piano, and ponders the mystery of it all. Versus is not turning out the way he thought it would.

"This is so treason," says Alfred into the silence. Might as well name the elephant.

"Yeah," sighs Arthur. "Pretty much."

"Glad we got that out of the way."

"You're not going to leave, are you."

"Not really. I'm bored."

"Why're you here anyway? Shouldn't you be out with the rest of—"

"The ball game, remember?"

"You got caught?"

"Well, no, or else they'd probably have shot me back into space by now—"

"Ha, probably—"

"Nah, listen, 'cause when I was coming back..."

In the hidden highest corners of a quiet, warm library, the sun continues to reach in as the two boys talk and poke at the old piano. The notes soak quickly in to the dust and air. The delicate music warns, incongruously, of the collapse of an empire.

(VS)

Not so far away a solidarity (barely, Antonio thinks, watching the Russian not-watch him through the mirror of the hospital bathroom) of a rather different sort is going down.

He'd woken up with one hell of a headache and a hot metal hammer stuck in his ribs, or at least that's what it'd felt like. The usual bone-scraping weariness was hitting him hard: the inevitable aftereffects of using Rush.

This little red-haired outsider was hovering around his bed.

When he tried to get up the boy started gabbling away, making the most ridiculous worried noises in a language Antonio couldn't understand and waving his hands frantically at him, clearly saying _stop stop stop_. The whole thing was so comical that Antonio couldn't even be bothered to work up any residual anger at Switzerland. Rather, he simply fell back on to his bed in a giant _whoomp, _much to the apparent relief of his—er, nurse?—and chuckled.

Most of the time Antonio disliked the hospital the way any good fighter does—it tasted too much of wasted time, of _failure—_but it was almost pleasant that day to be separated from the constant chaos of the outside. Antonio loved the first-years, he did. God knows they were so cute and clueless you couldn't help but want to protect them from it all. The rest of Spain House too; it might be wrong but he seems them more as sisters and brothers than comrades sometimes. But, really, it was his sixth year! As determined as Antonio was as any of them to win through all 10 years of this damn thing they were all caught in, sometimes it was nice to just sit back and doze off in the beautiful warm sun…

To not think about the Dome for once, and float, and dream in colors…

But even if he didn't want to think about it, that place was the inescapable heart of Versus and never failed to remind him so.

Antonio wakes in the dead-night hours. It's a few hours shy of dawn. The sun has long since turned her face away, and even the atmospheric-generation machines' constant whirring can't make Mars feel warm the way home does.

His ribs scream at him and a groan climbs out his mouth before he can stop it, but that's not what's bothering him.

_It's hot_—

—is all that's going through Antonio's mind, forty damned times too fast, and there's sweat soaking the sheets as he twists.

_It shouldn't be so hot, this place is temperature controlled, come on, it's only logical, calm down Antonio calm the fuck down, just think about it for another second, another minute, and it'll stop feeling like my heart's going to beat straight out of my chest. God it's going so fast this can't be normal, but isn't it like this every time and there's fire in my veins they are on fire can't anyone hear me burning, I'm screaming—_

But that's just sillybecause he's not screaming, just choking a little in the suffocating grip of night.

Twisting out of his bed, he tumbles to the floor. It should be freezing but all Antonio can feel is numbness.

He stumbles down the gloomy hallways towards the bathroom. Even the soft, small glows of the nightlights that are always on are miniature suns in his eyes. Snarling, he turns away, shielding his eyes with his damp hand. His lips are wet and swollen and throbbing with heat.

And Antonio thinks, _calm down now, this is normal, it's just the aftereffects, just the Rush catching up on you like always. _

Still, that dark feral beast is welling up in him like a hurricane, and it's scratching away at his chest from the inside. There's no _time. _And when Antonio finally stumbles inside the bathroom he ignores the light, _the light it's so bright it hurts_, and forces himself to open his eyes wide and stare himself down in the painful light of the mirror.

_No. _

_NO. _

"No," he whispers, and claws at his burning eyes, his sparkling green-leaf eyes that the laughing girls describe to him so often, because they're _not. _

They're that terrifying artificial _black. _

And they. Shouldn't be.

Antonio slumps against the wall, sliding down. The heat hits him hard, the furious nonstop punch of a black sun, a black fire. It's all so wrong. This isn't real light.

Feeling ugly, Spain's star crouches in the uncaring fluorescents and almost wants to cry (maybe just maybe, he does it) though he is 23 and far too old for this. But he is exhausted and alone and torn. Antonio loves Spain like nothing else, would give up anything for his country, but then how can he hate the drugs, how can he hate the changes to his body he can't understand? If Spain wants him to become _this_, he will. He will. But God, he hates himself so much right now, and he _shouldn't. _

And because it feels like the world's cracking, Antonio almost doesn't find it strange when the door moves behind his shoulder.

Then he's up and pressing himself against the sink, breathing in dry-mouthed horror, because this is—

_Ivan Braginski. _

For a horrible second every single thing Antonio's heard about this man (and he's heard a lot) confronts him and he's sure he's going to die, because Spain's star or no, he doesn't stand a chance against this Russia.

And for an even more horrible second, somehow, Antonio thinks, _did he see it, did he see me—_and wipes his hand across his wet face, frantically. Because that would be worse than dying, wouldn't it?

But the huge fighter looks right through him with the eyes of a ghost.

Antonio shivers even through his fevered torment-bubble.

Because that is a soul of ice he sees.

"Natalia," mutters Russia, staring at no one.

In the height of terror, the thought, _that's right, the rumors were right,_ resonates bell-like in Antonio's head. He relaxes a millimeter.

_He's a sleepwalker. _

The bathroom's not big enough for both of their miseries. Russia's words, quiet and unclear and spoken to no one as they are, ricochet off the walls and attack Spain. Their foreignness makes the whole situation even more eerie. The air feels ready to explode with the raw-scraped tension in the Russian's voice.

He's shivering now, Russia is, even in that big coat. He twists the edge of the scarf around his finger, tugs it closer like a child. His voice breaks even higher as he begs to no one. Holding his arms close, the Russian rocks slightly back and forth on his heels and quakes as he talks, as Antonio watches. His ungloved fingers dig into his arms, harder and harder. Antonio winces even to see the way the clenched skin turns red, then white. He almost, _almost _wants to slap the Russian's arms away. Doesn't that hurt? he wants to say.

Honestly he can't deal with this outsider's pain. Antonio doesn't want to think of that bloodthirsty killer of a Russian, the leader of the board, as this tortured _person_ in front of. God only knows what massiveness of a force drives him to this unwaking midnight confession to a bathroom mirror.

Honestly, Antonio's relieved when Russia, still mumbling, moves slowly towards the door again.

And, honestly, his heart stops again when Russia's hands can't find the knob.

For maybe half a horrible minute Antonio watches Russia feel around, fingers sliding blindly over wood. Russia's eyes…! It's always the eyes. They're purple chips of bruised haunted light, open but so _so _lost and echoing-like. When was the last time anyone showed Antonio so much vulnerability, willing or no?

Is Russia going to stand there all night?

Well, he's _not _awake.

So, he won't… will he?

Or won't he?

Damn it.

Antonio gets his nerve up.

He reaches forwards, licks his lips.

This is the closest he's ever been to another nation outside of battle and he is afraid because this is _Russia_.

And really quick, before he can think too hard about it, Antonio grabs Ivan's hand and steers it on to the knob and lets go like he's been burned. Even in that short instant of contact, Antonio realizes unwillingly that the Russian is sweaty but freezing cold. His skin is ice, chilly enough that even through his burning fingers Antonio can feel the cold quite clearly.

And, unwillingly, Antonio wonders: what is wrong with this man? What have they done to him?

But Russia is already out the door and wandering off into the hallway, just another cold shadow. With a shiver and a last look, Antonio heads quickly back to his room. No use bating danger. Before he falls asleep Antonio realizes, suddenly, that his skin isn't as hot anymore and his heartbeat has fallen back to a normal, exhausted, pace and that, his eyes _feel _green.

That damn Russia. Cold enough to do this, is he?

But Antonio is—well, thankful, when it comes down to it.

Ivan, for his part, wakes up in the morning cold and aching, with freezing feet, though he has no idea why. The headache's still there. There's still a little man sitting in his head with a rasp and file. Oddly, his mouth is dry.

He scratches at his right hand.

It tingles weirdly, like something was there, and Ivan smiles for no good reason at all through his confusion.


	7. Chapter 7

**AN**: Hungary's _finally _here. Everyone cheer! Seriously though I love that girl.

(VS)

Then it's the seventh day and Alfred doesn't want to dare to believe it, but Arthur's still talking to him and he's still talking back, and they haven't killed each other, and they, well, they _get _each other.

"Because, I dunno, they'd always told us soccer was an American thing—"

"Soccer?"

"_What_? What do you call it then?"

"It's _foot_ball. Pff, soccer. That doesn't even make any sense."

"It completely makes sense," complains Alfred. "How does it not make sense. And football's a different thing—"

"Wait wait _wait. _So in the game when you lug the ball around under your arm it's _foot_ball but when you actually kick the ball with your foot it's soccer? Tell me how that _doesn't _not make sense. Go on, give it a try."

"I mean," says Alfred, and opens his mouth, and closes it again. "Er. Okay, fine. Maybe it's a little—"

"_See_. There you go," smirks Arthur. "Even the bloody American himself admits it."

"Don't have to gloat, man!" Alfred sighs and leans back on the floor, making dust-angels. "God. I just didn't really think about it a lot, that's all. It's just one of those things you take for granted."

"I don't get it."

"What?"

"Everyone else here talks different languages, pretty much. Right?"

"Well don't ask _me_. I can't tell 'em apart."

"Sure, but then how is it we both speak English? Aren't we different countries?"

"No shit. But it's not totally the same though. Like, uh, like you say _bloody _a lot—"

"And you say _totally, _uh, _like_, totally too much," mocks Arthur.

"Yeah, toe-tahlly. Tooe-tahhhhlly," Alfred shoots back from the ground, imitating Arthur's accent.

"What. That is absolutely completely terrible. That doesn't even—it does not _even_ sound the same, you twit. And stop distracting me. What was I talking about."

"English."

"Yeah. What I mean is. Uh, how do I explain this—"

"Don't hurt yourself now—"

"Funny, you smart arse. No, okay. If you and me were to fly back to Earth right now, on a spaceship or something—"

"Wheee, spaceship—"

"Pay _attention! _God. So anyway, if we were to go back today, and I went to the UK, and you went to America, and we got everyone on the phone somehow, and they _talked _to each other, they'd get what each other was saying, basically. Yeah?"

"Yeah, but dude, that would like _toe-tahlly_—"

"Oh, stuff it—"

— "never happen."

"And how's that."

"People from different countries don't _talk _to each other, remember. Duh."

"And that's a funny thing too. I never heard anyone in my house talk about it. That you people talk the same way as us."

"Well they've got to know. Especially the upperclassmen. They've been here years so they can't not know.."

"Maybe…" Arthur mumbles, unconvinced.

"But so what? Even if they knew—I mean, you know now but we're not exactly buddy-buddy outside of this place."

"What? Of course not. That's just weird. We're not—we're here to fight—"

"Kill each other, yeah," says Alfred quietly, staring at a patch of blue sky through the grimy glass of the skylight. "Good old U S of A and all that."

A silence lingers and both boys glance instinctively towards dark corners, feeling guilty.

"D'you think other people, maybe, do this too?" asks Arthur eventually.

"Do what? Talk? Sure. Dunno about you but people in my house talk."

"Come on, Alfred. Act treasonous, I mean."

"If you want to put it that way—"

"It's not 'cause I'm putting it this way, that's what it is."

"Because this is wrong, right?" says Alfred. "Because they'd kill us for being friends?"

_Friends? _thinks Arthur.

But Alfred is shaking his head, now. "It's, everything's so messed up. I thought—"

Alfred sits up, concentrating. "I was—so excited to come here. Well of course I'd be. Every year, watch the upper class graduate and disappear, and we knew they were here. It was what everyone looked forward to. Our whole lives and all that, you know?"

"Same here. Everything was for one thing—"

"Exactly, and that was to come fight at Versus. But then I got here, and y'know, I was actually kind of like disappointed. I thought we were gonna like fight _aliens _or something, the way the teachers put it. When I got off the ship, and it was like, uuuh, scuse me, this the wrong place or something because those're just people over there."

"That's true, but I mean, if everyone just thought about everyone as just people then this whole 'alternate-warfare' thing wouldn't work, so…"

"By now I don't get why it _does _work." Alfred groans, turns around on the floor. "This whole system is so damn confusing. Who the hell came up with it, anyway?"

"Isn't that what your report thing's on?"

"What?"

"The history of Versus—the 'way it works'."

"Sure. Like I've done so much of _that_—"

"Seriously," says Arthur, standing up. "Let's go take a look at it."

Alfred runs his hand through his hair, looking at the sky. This high up in the library it feels close enough to touch.

"Eh, why the fuck not," he says, and accepts Arthur's hand.

Together, the two boys clamber down the stairs in the abandoned library, their steps echoing heavenwards.

(VS)

Some minutes earlier, the clicking of boot heels is oppressive in the polished corridor.

"Denmark."

The conversation grinds to a halt.

"Which one?" drawls Matthias in the silence.

"You. We need to talk with you for a minute..."

Matthias rises lazily from the game of cards. His expression is one of intense irritation.

"You guys got off easy. I'll win next time. You know that."

A painted grin from one his fellow Danes. "Sure, Matthias. We know."

_That you're in huge trouble. That you have a secret. That you're not like the rest of us._

"Come on," he half-whines as they march in front of him, behind him, like deer circling the wolf. "Bad timing, much! You coulda just waited a couple minutes. I was going to win. I was totally sure of it!" No response. "Well, whatever. It's too late now." They're so guarded, cautious, suspicious. _But aren't I a Dane like the rest of you?_ he wants to ask. _Why the distrust, guys? _

He knows perfectly well.

His teacher gestures at him to sit in the echoing office. Everything is white and bloodless here (including the teacher), bathed pale by the dead fluorescent lights. Matthias sprawls across the uncomfortably curved chair in a silent revolt of dirty human-ness, reveling loudly in every inch of unscrubbed skin, even the unpleasant smell rising from his boots.

"Matthias."

_Not Denmark anymore_? thinks Matthias.

"Yeah?"

"Do you know why we've called you here?"

"Uh. No? They didn't tell me." His voice is raised just half a centimeter too high, just that irritating edge beyond the comfort zone.

The teacher cannot hold Denmark's wide, unblinking, _so-blue _gaze, and resorts to flicking through some files projected on his desktop.

"We're just a little worried, that's all."

"Ah… about?" he asks, delicately.

"Your performance in the Dome"—

Matthias cuts him off with a little shift and a raise of the eyebrow. "I'm still in the same position on the board, so I'm not quite sure…"

What his eyes are saying, on the other hand, are: _I know exactly what you think you know, but you're so wrong. And if you think I am going to tell you _anything_, you can just go—_

A grueling hour and a half of light later, and the teacher has a headache, while a wide grin paints Matthias' mind, though his actual mouth remains appropriately caught between solemn and confused.

How he loves this game.

How he loves the questions, the masks, every little action and emotion sending out exactly the message he wants to send. Allowing the teacher, that poor son of a bitch, to think he has half a lead, before slamming him facefirst into a dead end solid steel wall. And he doesn't clam up. He is Matthias, and Matthias doesn't _clam_. Rather, he talks and talks and talks, rambles, conjectures, remembers and relates, gossiping, confiding, even laughing, but never does anything of even remote importance slip past his lips.

Ninety percent truth, ten percent lie, one-hundred-fucking percent art of the bullshit artist, thank-ya very much. Matthias thinks he has a right to be proud.

"So then, he was like—ha, you're _never_ going to believe this, teach, but he was all"—

"Matthias." A giveaway rub of the temples.

"Like he didn't—yeah?" Study the face for one-two-three seconds, let a little concern tilt your eyebrows. "Something wrong?"

The teacher can barely contain the glare, and Matthias allows himself to feel smug. "Never mind. That's all we need to know. You're dismissed for today."

Matthias is perfectly aware of the meaning behind the last two words of that sentence. Nevertheless, he dares to linger at the doorway on his way out.

"You sure there's nothing else you wanted?"

_You'll never be able to get anything from me. _

"No. Nothing else."

_One day we will find out everything, Matthias, and you will pay. _

"Okaaay then. Bye bye," whistles Matthias, and saunters out.

(VS)

At the exact moment Matthias strolls out of the narrow closing fingers of his interrogation and two boys clang downwards in a forgotten haven, Gilbert is being clocked over the head with a cast-iron frying pan.

"What the _fuck_!" he spits out from the floor, masking surprise and pain with anger because when was the last time anyone other than Francis or Antonio managed to ambush him anyway?

Man, no one can do anything around here anymore.

One second there's this delicious scared looking little underclassmen girl cornered in front of him, yelling at him in some teary foreign language, and the next he's flying through the air, his head ringing. God, Gilbert wasn't even going to do anything to her, just scare her back to whatever-House she came from. Do they _think _he wants a piece of some outsider? The German girls are plenty good enough for him, and he's not one of those idiots who tries rape, not when Switzerland's in sniffing distance. Besides, a good fighter doesn't waste time on love.

And now, someone just had to stick their head in—

"You fucking bitch, who do you think you are—"

Elizabeta understands the message well enough, even if she doesn't speak a word of German, and spits back in equally foreign Hungarian while shoving her friend behind her, "You keep your filthy hands off of her, you hear me, you piece of shit German son of a—"

"Don't, Elizabeta," cries her second-year friend, tugging at Elizabeta's sleeve as Elizabeta stomps towards the fallen German, the other hand tugging at her rumpled skirt. "Come on, I'm fine, really. He didn't do anything. He was just—let's go, already—"

"No," Elizabeta snarls, shaking free. "_Nincs_, Eva."

She hefts her brown hair over one shoulder and the frying pan over the other, as if it's barely any weight when Gilbert knows (now, first-hand) that this is far from the case. Gilbert is fascinated with the way the muscles ripple in her strong right wrist. His eyes are caught on her movement.

"Don't just let this bastard get away with it. Dumb dogs like these, you have to teach them the hard way that they can't disrespect a Hungarian—no, fuck that, my _friend—_like that."

"Please, leave it. You'll get in trouble for calling outside the Dome. The Circuit's already started!"

"I don't care, Eva. Don't you understand this isn't about the Game anymore—"

Gilbert, swaying upwards, catches the word 'Circuit' in the flow of rapid Hungarian.

"That's right, outsider, think of your status," he smirks at the girls, feeling the blood flee his forehead. "The Circuit's started, so why don't you just run home—"

"Eliza," Eva hisses, making a last desperate attempt, "Don't you know who that is, please, just come _on—_"

"No, and I don't care—"

"That's _Gilbert Beilschmidt, _don't you get it, he's the leader of the Germans and—"

"Then that's even better, I've needed some practice—"

"That's right," rasps Gilbert, hearing his name, "this is the awesome Gilbert Beilschmidt you're talking about so you'd better just leave before you get yourself in to more trouble than you can handle—"

Finally, Elizabeta manages to break out of her friend's grip, sprinting towards the German.

"That's _enough _out of you!" she yells with a horrible grin, and raises the pan again.

And Gilbert can't quite believe (doesn't want to believe) someone other than Francis or Antonio has forced him to this.

Even as she closes, even as his gloves burst into pieces.

On Elizabeta's end, all she sees is a bright-dark flash and her weapon is beaten aside horribly fast. She almost loses her grip on it, the blow ringing painfully through the handle up her arm. Spinning with the impact, Elizabeta simultaneously leaps back in reflex, her elbow tingling and feeling half dislocated.

Gilbert raises the deceptively slender whip, laughs as annoyingly and loudly as he can. He cracks it in the air, relishing the long feel of it, the way the air flinches before him, his speed, his strength.

They circle, warily. Skillet and whip eye each other.

"Come here, girl," he taunts. Though he knows she can't understand him the intent, the emotion, is clear enough, a language universal that even Versus can't break. "Come here."

"I'll teach animals like you a lesson."

"You German son of a bitch," snarls Elizabeta in response. "You want a fight? Bring it on."


	8. Chapter 8

(VS)

Ludwig gets there just in time to see the two police-nations of the community in action.

"Stop," says Switzerland, the crowd rapidly shrinking away from him.

He's talking to the girl who's snarling at Ludwig's brother.

The two of them circle and lunge, panting, still spitting curses. The girl's pants and shirt are hanging on in shreds in some places, splattered with blood. Her body is cut with the telltale long slashes of Gilbert's whip. One particularly nasty wound slices across her face, drawing a fierce scarlet line on her from temple to chin. Ludwig's brother, on the other hand, is in worse shape. Bruising rapidly and developing a goose-egg swelling on his forehead, Gilbert has one swollen-shut eye and a split lip. Red stains his white hair in oozing patches.

Ludwig knows how hard it is to really make a mark on a fighter as good as Gilbert. He eyes Hungary's weapon and shudders at the blood coating the pan.

Oddly, one of his brother's rivals is also stumbling near the side, clutching his gushing nose. If Ludwig could understand French he would know Francis is yelling:

"_Merde_! Are you _crazy_, you're completely out of control—"

Elizabeta ignores the blood-stained tones of his voice. It's France's fault for approaching her after she'd beaten half the senses (actually, it's arguable whether the German ever possessed any to begin with) out of the German. It's France's fault for his glowing smirk, slinking into the edge of the fight like: _not bad, now let the expert help, step aside before you—_

In the throbbing glow of the battle, patience already worn thin, Elizabeta had stepped aside.

Only to rear back and around, and smash France in the nose with a satisfying crunchy sound, getting her wordless point across—_this is between me and Germany,_ érted, _you fool? _

Not such a pretty face anymore.

He can join damn Germany, on that one.

Elizabeta admires her handiwork—bruised, hopefully broken ribs, puffy face, a black eye, the other glaring red daggers at her. That should teach him something.

She has to admit, though, he kind of knows what he's doing. Grinning ruefully, Elizabeta feels the hot quick burn of his weapon on her back, across her stomach. The reach and speed of that thing isn't to be underestimated and her blood splatters the floor.

But she, like him, ignores her injuries. Elizabeta choosesas well to ignore the reluctant admiration she can see in the German's deep-red eyes.

She's seen (beaten out of them) that look from too many men before.

The truth is that Elizabeta is used to ignoring men, their smiles, their frowns, their offers and curses and punches, by now.

So she ignores Switzerland's command now, and raises the pan high above her head again, while Gilbert tenses and brings the whip back in front of him.

Vash kind of just _sighs._

In half a blazing second he's across the huddle of nations watching the fight, a tight blur of steel muscle and undiluted movements, faster even than the mechanical eyes of Hungary or Germany can follow. Vash spins his rifle around to grip the forestock and cracks Hungary neatly across the face with the butt of it while his partner grabs Germany by the shoulders, swings the taller man like a few pounds of extra weight and smashes him into the floor.

Hungary falls aside, a strangled noise escaping her—stunned but not seriously harmed.

Gilbert, on the other hand…

Vash sighs. Walking over to the new-made dent in the floor, he nudges Germany with a booted foot.

"Hey. Say something, swine."

The albino opens his eyes, spits blood and possibly a tooth on the floor, and curses in German at that "_dumme schlampe_," eyes seeking greedily for his defeater.

Yes, he'll be perfectly okay.

_Why do I bother getting my hopes up_, thinks Vash. _The day that idiot does me the favor of dying, pigs will fly. _

"That's the second time, right?" asks his partner, pressing Gilbert in to the floor.

Vash sighs, again, and swings the rifle, and glances at Yao.

He's short and appears youthful, with wide brown eyes, but he's actually an year older than Vash and will be turning 28 in less than a month. Yao tends to laugh when Vash says this, and will never fail to point out—probably while cramming some sort of fragrant Chinese food down his throat—that Vash makes up for it by looking too old, too serious. They had met each other a number of times in the Game as players, but neither had ever succeeded in killing the other. Now, done with the Circuit, they both chose to stay and help regulate Versus. Switzerland thinks they balance each other well, professionally speaking (and to some extent, even as individuals).

"Yeah," replies Vash. "Two times, two weeks."

"What do you want to do?"

Vash considers, watching a first-year German with slicked blonde hair push through the crowd to Gilbert's side and pull him up. Hungary and France sulk through their respective wounds but don't otherwise make a move.

"Collar, probably."

"Really?" Yao raises an eyebrow, reminding him: _the season's started and Germany and France and Hungary will be none too pleased to lose their best. _

"Yeah. Unless…"

Yao shrugs. "I don't have a problem with it if you don't."

Vash nods and clicks the button inside his collar, switching on the Babel device so everyone can understand him. "Okay, you three. Collar for a week—"

"You should leave him out of it," pants Hungary, clutching her forehead.

"What?"

"Him," she says, pointing at France. An almost comical expression of surprise immediately paints itself across the blonde's face, even as blood continues to sprint over his chin. "He didn't—he wasn't—just leave him out of it. Please," she adds belatedly.

"You really don't want him to be punished?"

"Because _she _jumpedhim, is what," spits Gilbert, catching Vash's question. "I mean, fuck, even_ I_ wasn't doing anything—"

"Shut up," says Vash, at the same time as Elizabeta shoots the Germany a filthy look that communicates about the same message. "As for you, there's no excuse that's going to get you out of this one. You might as well save your fucking breath to go explain to your instructors. You too, Hungary. Am I clear?"

"Yessir," they both mumble.

"Follow them to the hospital, please," Vash says to Yao. "And for fuck's sake don't let them start fighting again."

Yao grins and mock-salutes him. "No problem."

(VS)

Somehow, Elizabeta and Gilbert manage to keep themselves from squabbling too much during the short walk, though the two of them trade pointed glances the entire way there, and there are more than a few expressions mouthed behind China's back, complete with explanatory hand gestures. China doesn't seem to care too much, just marches them there with a roll of the eyes and a smile tugging at his lips. Francis just finds the whole ordeal amusing, even if his nose is throbbing like the devil.

At the hospital, Francis gets treated pretty fast since his injury is minor. The machines in his body will have it fully healed within a few days.

He lingers on his way out when he hears Gilbert bitching loudly from one of the rooms lining the corridor. The German is scratching the new metal band installed against his neck, which will keep from being able to call his weapon for the next week.

"That fucking—who the hell—I don't even—" he complains.

The nurse sighs, long experience teaching her better than to reply. She neatly dodges his flailing limb, tells him firmly in German to "stay put," and marches out.

"_Elizabeta_," Gilbert settles on seething, catching sight of Francis outside the door and perfunctorily flicking him off as the Frenchman waves. "Who does she think she is. I mean, a frying pan?" He splutters, as if this is some sort of blasphemy. "What the fuck kind of weapon is that? You know, the next time I see her I'm going to kill her, I swear—"

"Now, now," says Francis mildly. "A gentleman should be kind to the ladies."

The expression that crosses Gilbert's face is comical. Francis thinks it's kind of cute how easily a flush shows on the German's pale skin.

"Are you so unused to being referred to as a gentleman? Or….," says Francis. "Oh, don't tell me. Even youaren't silly enough to not realize _that_, are you? Elizabeta _is_ a woman, after all."

Gilbert's face struggles to control itself and fails.

"Shut up, _arschloch_. It's not like I didn't know… I just didn't think of it like that, is all…"

Amazingly, Francis can believe him. Gilbert's just the type of simple-minded creature to see his opponent as only that: an enemy, to be defeated or dealt with in the best way possible. The perfect soldier. He's probably at least _aware _that his challengers have sex and identity; he just doesn't acknowledge the fact at all.

_Well, to each his own_, thinks Francis. If that's Gilbert's way of coping with their daily lives, then so be it.

"I mean, so what? It doesn't matter if she's a w-woman," mutters Gilbert to the floor, blushing furiously. "See if I care. I'm still going to beat her next time. I will."

"You just keep telling yourself that," says Francis, smiling knowingly as he strolls away.

For God's sake, who does Gilbert think he's fooling? France is the nation of romance.

If anyone knows a crush when he sees one, it's Francis.


	9. Chapter 9

(VS)

"Ugh. This is bloody—"

The same ugly screen glares up at them yet again:

_VIOLATION: you are not allowed access to this page. Please contact your instructors if you wish to continue. _

"They've blocked, like, half the sites on this stupid thing," whines Alfred, tilting back in his chair.

It's the fourth hour of fruitless searching on the Ethernet and both Arthur and Alfred are losing patience.

"Guess they just don't want us to know some things," sighs Arthur.

"Whatever, man. This is so freakin' annoying. Isn't that what the web's for? So people can actually learn things and stuff?"

"We could try asking an instructor…"

Alfred scoffs. "Sure. And get jetted off back to Earth in, like, two seconds."

"You don't _know _that they'd do that."

"Sure I do." Alfred swivels in the chair, checks again that no one's entered the library. Nope. It's just barely the start of the second week of the season, and everyone else is still hopped up and having fun outside. "Hasn't anyone in your House, just. Y'know…"

"No I don't know, thanks. Care to elaborate?"

"Just—_disappeared."_

"Uh. We don't have alien abductions, if that's what you're saying."

"It's _totally _not what I'm saying—"

"Okay, fine, fine. Seriously though, I haven't heard of anything like that happening."

"You sure? Ask around some time. There's players that just never finish the Circuit. They just fall off somewhere in the middle."

"Well they could've _died_," says Arthur, rolling his eyes. "That tends to happen here, in case you haven't noticed."

"But if they _died_ it'd be on the record, wouldn't it? Stamped deceased, send the folks some cash and a nice apology letter and all that? They tell you those kinds of things in the House."

"Sure, I guess—"

"Well that's what I'm saying then."

"Wait a minute. It's not like _you_ have access to the records. Only the teachers and people can see those types of things, right? So how do you know they _didn't _die? I mean, whenever anyone's gone, don't the people in your House tell you which battle they died in and all that?"

"Maaybe—"

"See what I mean. Then you're just turning this whole affair in to, in to some kind of a conspiracy theory."

"It is _so _not a conspiracy theory," gasps Alfred in mock-hurt. "Come on. You gotta admit, there is definitely something fishy about this whole system, there's more gaps than a—"

"Well I'm sorry,but until _you_ come up with some evidence or something, from where I'm sitting this whole systemlooks just fine."

"How is a bunch of people killing each other over nothing fine?"

"Okay, _okay. _Let me just read this thing you were working on." Arthur seizes the mouse from Alfred and closes the futile _VIOLATION _window, opening up the report. "See, you said it yourself here, uh… yeah, '_it was evident that nuclear warfare was no longer a viable option for warfare—it was far too destructive,' _blah blah blah, what would be the solution, blah blah. Oh, okay. Here: '_the Versus system would be the answer.'_"

Arthur leans back and gives Alfred a look.

"So?" says Alfred.

"What do you mean _so? _There's your answer," he says, slapping the desk in front of the screen. "There's why a bunch of people are killing each other, because that's what war is, isn't it. This is just the _new_ way to do it. A more—civilized, contained, fair way of fighting, what with us being drawn up here by lottery and all that. We represent our countries and we come here and we fight, and it's survival of the fittest and glory to the best, and that's it."

Alfred sulks, crossing his arms and glaring at the clean white text on the screen. Okay, the way Arthur puts it makes a lot of sense, and that's what his teachers are always saying anyways. Go, America, and all that stuff. While he sits here next to a British boy and contemplates treason, hah.

But his gut tells him there is something quite off about this whole thing.

"If there wasn't some issue, why would they be blocking the web all the time?" he shoots back, unable to get at the heart of what he feels.

What he means, is:

_If there wasn't some issue, why would they always be hiding things? _

Arthur has nothing to say to that.

(VS)

The next day, the last of Alfred's ten-day punishment, Arthur doesn't show up.

It's not until nightfall, when (after having hammered through the last few pages of his report wondering and alone and just a little resentful) Alfred returns to USA House with a headache and cold feet, that he hears it, that the first kill of the season has been made.

And for a realistic guy, Alfred _really _doesn't want to believe it when a laughing American hugs him by the shoulders and says:

"One of those British bastards, he got totally—"

The smile feels frozen on Alfred's face and his heart races as the image of Arthur dashes across the inside of his eyelids.

Is this what victory is supposed to feel like?

And it feels like his heart doesn't start beating again until one of the Americans tosses a recording of the match to him and Alfred sees that: One, it wasn't an American who made the kill, it was a first-year German boy with icy hair and icy eyes, and two, it wasn't a mop of brilliant blonde hair and empty green eyes lying in that pool of blood, it was—well, someone else, a different British first-year.

Still, an ugly feeling lingers.

Alfred feels guilty for feeling relieved, and neither feeling will let go of him.

And that question comes back to him again:

_If I can feel relieved that Arthur didn't die, why am I able to stand _this_? _

(VS)

Unfortunately, the space for contemplation is short, as Alfred has more immediate troubles to worry about.

"And… there, you're complete."

The teacher leans back in her chair and flicks the glowing projection floating between them around so Alfred can confirm it for himself.

Alfred finds himself reflected in an electronic mirror, a 3D photo of himself grinning from the upper left corner, along with a list of his basic stats and information. Near the top, right under his name and nation, there is a glowing bar freshly turned an eerie expectant green:

**ACTIVE**

**Rank: D-373**

Only one thing's changed but it feels like _everything_ has.

"So, right now you're at the bottom of the D list of players because most of the other players have started," says the teacher, oblivious to Alfred's confusion. "D's definitely the lowest rank, but…"—she scrolls through Alfred's player stats, analyzing them quickly—"you did pretty well in the school, it looks. By the end of the first season you should be able to move up to C list, easily, as long as you don't get any more marks on your record." She folds her hands before her, tilts her head at him. "Any questions, Jones?"

Alfred eyes the incriminating letter and (recalling the conversation he had with Arthur in the library), asks, "What if I don't?"

"Excuse me?"

"What if I can't make it up to C? Ma'am?"

She squints a little at him. Alfred notices that she has mascara on.

"It's understandable if you're nervous," she finally says, closing the screen with a little _zwip. _ "Most first-years are. But judging by your stats, you should be able to make C list as long as you work hard this year. You're not intending to slack off, are you?"

"No," says Alfred hastily. "No, of course not, I was just wondering—"

"Because this isn't a place for the lazy, or the weak, or the discontented. Some players forget how much of an honor it is to come here, to represent the United States. That's a mistake you don't want to make. The school was only the first part—this is the real test of your journey, and it would be of dire consequence to the nation if you were to disappoint."

"Yeah, yeah, definitely," agrees Alfred, wondering what he's provoked in this woman's mind.

Pursing her lips, she levels him with a dead-on stare. "I certainly hope so. Remember: he who will not play does not last."

Swiveling back around in her chair and pulling up another student's files, she turns her back on him.

"Dismissed, Jones."

Alfred emerges from her office shaken.

As he leaves, he glances back at the imposing building, the words "United States of America Headquarters" stamped on it, bright red-white-and-blue flags hiding large swaths of the steel structure.

Smiling queasily, Alfred gives the flag a quick salute and heads off, the Game looming large over his shoulder.

(VS)

Alfred's not one to give up so easily, though.

Every morning the little screen above his bed informs him of his board standing, as well as any matches scheduled for that day. Since he's a first-year and firmly at the bottom edge of the D list of players, Alfred only gets a few virtua-matches a week, fights against computer generated opponents in small rings a world away from the massive Dome, fights that probably only a few hundred people watch from back on Earth. In addition, since he didn't pass the early waiver exam, he still has to take traditional classroom lessons in the mornings, possibly until he's a third or fourth-year.

So, for now, at least, he doesn't have to worry about fighting another nation.

The AI opponents aren't really a problem for him, to be honest, but Alfred's already seen several of his more enterprising classmates rocket upwards in board standings and doesn't want to think about what happens when they enter C list. So he wins just enough to keep anyone from getting suspicious, and spends a good chunk of his spare time training in the little practice hubs clustered near USA House, or down at the firing range with his twin Smith and Wesson model 3s. He hangs out with his fellow players, takes his meals with them, and often joins them in cautiously exploring the other areas of the community in the assuring company of the older players.

But whenever he can, he slips back in to the library, with the excuse of having homework to do. Well, it's not really an excuse since he _does _have schoolwork—it's just that the rest of the Americans (and other players in general) tend to avoid the library due to the popular conception that, since all the nations share the place, you'll get beaten to a pulp as soon as you set foot in the door (and they have persocoms anyway, so why bother?).

Actually the place is pretty much always empty, the way it was when Alfred and Arthur first met each other.

Though every time, Alfred hopes that it won't be.

With every day that passes Alfred's hopes sink a little more. Maybe those conversations didn't mean anything, he tells himself, even though he knows differently. Maybe they'll never find the answers to those questions that consume him all the time, now that they've been put into words.

Until the day Arthur does walk in.

But—_damn it!—_there's another American doing work there, so Alfred can't say a thing.

He stares resolutely at the screen in front of him—_don't look at him, don't look, don't give it away—_

Halfway to a shelf, Arthur jumps and digs a mobile out of his pocket.

"What?" he asks, irritably. "No. No, I can't. Well it's not as if I want to do it either. Yeah. I _know. _Dunno. I'll definitely have to come back, it'll probably take all night to finish. Don't expect me. Finish? Four, maybe. In the _morning_, yeah. Don't say a word, it's not like I asked for it. Okay. Bye."

He curses and stalks towards the shelves, scowling at the books.

Alfred can't help flicking a glance at Arthur. Was that what he thought it was?

What he doesn't expect is: Arthur, meeting his gaze.

"What?" he snaps.

The other American looks up, sees the British kid glaring at Alfred, and tenses. This is the reason why no one goes to the library.

After a heartbeat's pause, Alfred just shakes his head and looks away. "Not worth it, man," he mutters to his fellow player, who nods as he goes back to typing.

It's hard to keep his fingers from shaking.


End file.
